I've Been Wrong Before
by jokergurl92
Summary: Kate Richardson is stuck in the decadence of a monotonous marriage and happily works as a security guard of Arkham Asylum just to get a little spice in her life. By taking that first graveyard shift, Kate is introduced to someone who is more than willing to give her what she desires...if, that is, she is willing to give a piece of herself in return.
1. Same Old Thing

**I've Been Wrong Before**

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**Disclaimer:** This is strictly an AU story. I don't own any DC comics characters (unfortunately). Any characters remotely in resemblance by name is probably DC Comics' ownership; anyone that doesn't sound familiar is mine.

_Author's Note_: This will be my fourth Joker story. :) I'm kind of proud of myself. For now, this story is rated T for coarse to mild language and brief sexual content. As it gets worse, I'll up the rating. Read and review at your leisure, but I update quicker via reviews. ;)

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Chapter One: Same Old Thing.

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We made love in the night. The silence invaded my mind, leaving me to a deeper sea of thoughts. Despite the thrusts he committed to my ever-longing pleasure, a much-needed change from the absolute monotony he frequently delivered, I was compelled to moan out of obligation, not a result of numbing sensuality. What he lacked was effort; what I lacked was adventure. His enthusiasm of his hands probing my ass and snaking their fingers up my rib cage to grope at my breasts were empty efforts—I saw more effort in a suckling infant upon a mother's breast than his tongue that messily licked my bosom. He knew little of what he was doing.

Yet, here I was, trying to appeal to his ego like some unhappy wife, moaning like a porn star and with a vocalization that even an opera singer could master.

It was an admirable act.

I was married. I was unhappy. I was his wife. And I wanted to be anywhere but in a queen-sized mattress, showered by middle-class earnings of some dipstick lawyer who knew as much of pleasing a woman as he did acquitting his people. He could get a jury off on his charismatic appeal but the man had no evidence—regarding his defendant's innocence or my sexual pleasures.

He finished, pouring his seed inside of me. His harsh breath of alcohol and the dopey smile he sent me were regular signs of his own sexual satisfaction. In response, I only smiled back like the dutiful wife I had become. As a husband, he made do—a good job, fair wage, and we even had two cars we used to get to and from work on time, without a hassle. As a lover—I could fuck myself better than he could with both hands.

Needless to say, the man with a badly trimmed beard, slick, oily black hair, and dispassionate blue eyes made little to no effort in pleasing me on our fifth Valentine's Day together. Why I ever said 'yes' to a man who couldn't find his way around a bra clasp was beyond me; maybe I had been in the same position he was tonight: Drunk out of his skull.

Too bad I didn't take his offer on drinking five beers for this unhappy coitus...maybe I'd have changed my mind after all these years.

While he enjoyed the same missionary position every night, I was getting bored. I'm not talking about different settings or just general lack of enthusiasm. Gary always did it missionary, in the same bed, in the same spot, in the same way, at the same time of night. At nine o'clock, sharp, we were fucking (or what he considered 'fucking'). I didn't ask for much except for a little change: _Throw me on the coffee table, fuck me in the shower. Show me a little knife play, get a little rough, Gary, come on! _You'd be surprised how crazy he thought I was for wanting something a little different. Call me an anarchist, but I like to stir the pot a bit.

What I wanted was a little anarchy.

Then again, I always thought _I_ was right. I never thought I could be wrong about these things, but then again...unfortunately...I'd been wrong before.


	2. Creature of Habit

**I've Been Wrong Before**

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_**Several Notes before this story continues: **_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the DC comics characters or any of Nolan's plots. While all the characters in DC belong to DC Comics, I do have my own little origin stories for them and different appearances. **For those who want to know, my Joker is depicted between Heath Ledger's adaptation of him, and a mix of Scott McClure's depiction **(from the Joker Blogs, a youtube sensation, btw.)

**_Author's Note_**: I'm so very pleased that this has already gotten five reviews and it's only a chapter long. I **normally** update daily but these past few days have been, in a word, 'interesting'. So hopefully I'll get my act together. Thank you for all your reviews, and to those who say this story isn't "your cup of tea", it's each to his/her own. I'm known for dark and disturbing psychological themes so beware (Read '_Games That Daddies Play' _if you're skeptical.)

Okay, enough banal chitchat: _Here. We. Go._

_(())_

**Chapter Two: Creature of Habit  
**

Coffee was brewing and the small churning of coffee beans awoke my senses to a smell that was both ghastly and enlightening. The fragrance was my daily caffeine being brewed in five minutes, poured into my sixteen ounce tumbler that I regularly packed to work. The odor was a man that _wreaked_ of Old Spice. When I felt a pair of lanky arms twist themselves around my waist and a body hug up against my back, I knew the source of the excessive cologne.

Lips kissed my neck briefly, before I heard the smooth tone of Gary Richardson.

"How are you feeling, honey?"

I frowned, glancing at him partially. _How are you feeling, honey_? Two things were wrong with that sentence alone. First: When did he start calling me 'honey'? And second...well, my feelings towards him were mixed.

I turned around in his arms, however smiling at him as though he were still my Knight in Shining Armor. That armor was risque over the years; he'd traded his professional, three-piece business suit for a regular suit-and-tie...brown of all colors, not the pretty navy blue that made his eyes stand out. That, of course, had been _years_ ago.

"'Honey'?" I repeated smoothly. "What do _you_ want so badly?"

Gary smirked at me.

Now, when I say 'smirk', I mean half of his face fell downwards while the other half remained in place. I used to fall in love with the crooked grin he'd send me from across the room; it used to give me chills, and I'd shudder at the thought of being pulled in a broom closet, to be fucked five ways over and then ten ways under...that was before I realized Gary didn't like it any other way but traditional. So my broom closet days never had the luxury of being imagined in the first place.

I simply smiled at him when he leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

"I have a good feeling about today," Gary stated.

"Really?" I returned, playing enthusiasm at its best. "Prosecution dropped the case?"

"As good of a feeling, Katelynn." Gary sang. He placed his hand on my cheek, gentle as could be.

Sometimes, I wish he'd just shove me against a wall and burrow into me like there was no tomorrow. I half-expected him to do so when he flashed me another smirk, but that wasn't for me; it was for the career fireworks.

"Mr. Flanders," drawled Gary, "wants a bargain."

"Bargain?" I repeated.

Gary stepped past me so he could drink a large cup of coffee. He took the coffee black, adding nothing to it for save a smoldering look into the brew before he drank it to the last drop, then sighed calmly. Blue eyes, black hair—he'd rile my loins if he'd go clean shaven...or throw me against the oven, make love to me over last night's lasagna dinners while the fire consumed us both.

_God, I need a good lay._

I smiled at Gary—he continued talking while I reminisced all the ways he could satisfy me better.

Don't get me wrong: I love Gary. He's my husband of five years, and he's never abused me any way. He just won't accept that I have a side of me that must be pleased, otherwise I grow bored...well, I was already bored. I just didn't get the same feeling around him like I used to and when that started to happen, I either imagined a divorce coming along, or he'd be left in bed with his hand cuffed behind his back—and they'd be my cuffs...

"Katelynn."

I blinked, looking from the oven, at which I'd apparently been staring longingly and turned my attention quickly to him. Gary smiled when he recognized my distracted expression; he touched his hands on my face, bringing us into what he imagined was a romantic kiss.

Guy could not kiss worth a crap.

I loved Gary...I really did. But come on girls; if the guy isn't going to charm your feminine side _and_ your sexual beasts, then what's the point? They say "sex isn't everything"-well, they also say "Money doesn't buy happiness" but get real: The more money I have, the more things I can buy, and the happier I can be with those things that I've bought.

Sex is the same way—surely?

Then again, I've been wrong before.

"The Prosecution found that their client has been lying all this time," enthused Gary.

I wish I could share his happiness: that meant the prosecutor's client, a twelve-year-old girl, had been lying about being sexually molested by her 40-year-old father. I frowned when Gary's smile widened from ear-to-ear in a toothy stretch.

"So this man's reputation has been ruined because the kid didn't want to play patty-cake?" I voiced coolly.

Gary stared at me and said uncomfortably, "You should be happy the girl _didn't_ get hurt."

"Of course I'm happy," I told him. "I'm not saying I wanted the father to fuck his kid. That's sick."

"Then why the callous tone?"

"I wasn't being callous. I'm just saying that the man's reputation has been obliterated thanks to a spoiled child. She didn't get her way and her response was to charge her father with a rape charge? That hardly seems justified."

"It isn't justice," conceded Gary sweetly. "But that's an automatic win for me."

Gary stepped away from me to start readying his briefcase full of papers; he stacked them neatly, placed them all in their different plastic slips, which these dividers were placed in a completely different folder as well. When I touched his cup to put it in the sink, Gary took the cup before I could even move my hand towards it.

I stared at him reproachfully—after all, I was only trying to help, but I recognized what I'd done.

Gary was a little OCD about a few things.

His brief case was his own domain; papers were separated into slips, which were separated into dividers, which were divided into different folders. This was explained to me and I never could keep up with the labels. As for the dishes, they all had to be cleaned, washed, and inspected for germs. He made the bed, he cleaned the house—he even organized the towels from biggest to small, and from that order, he categorized them by color (of course, following the ideal order of the color spectrum).

I tossed my hands up in the air when he took my cup as well, and he began cleaning them wordlessly. As a whole, it only meant that I didn't have to do anything around the house but I didn't like the limitation he placed in the house; after all, it was my fucking home too.

"My client doesn't know about this bargain though," Gary explained when he finished washing our cups. He dried his hands thoroughly on a kitchen towel which he'd taken from the handle of the stove and when he made sure there was no water left on his hands, he folded the towel once over in a ridiculously perfect crease, and placed it over the oven. He inspected the angle, fixed it, inspected it again, and edited his last amend before he broke a smile of relief.

He turned to me, realizing I'd been watching him.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing." I returned, shaking my head.

"It is something."

"I said 'it's nothing'."

"You're still amazed by this, aren't you?" Gary asked curiously.

He took his brief case and I walked him to the front door. He placed his hand on the door knob but didn't twist it, looking at me plainly.

"I would figure after all these years of living with me, you would be used to my certain...quirks."

"I am used to it." I told him. Pointedly, I added, "I'm used to _everything_ you do."

"Then why do you look so surprised?"

"I'm not surprised."

"You seem surprised."

"Well, I'm not." I returned calmly. "You can never surprise me, Gary. You're a creature of habit."

"I am not."

"See, I knew you'd object to that."

"Because you said what I'm not." Gary protested.

"I'm stating facts," I responded smoothly. "You're predictable, Gary."

"I am not—"

"—Predictable," I finished.

"How can you say—"

"—Something like that." I finished again.

Gary furrowed his eyebrows at me, as if wondering how I was able to read his mind. But I had no power of any kind; it only proved my point. Gary's blue eyes softened as he wiped a hand through excessive gelled black hair, and traced his awkwardly trimmed beard. The same hand touched my face endearingly.

"Maybe we should try something different tonight then," Gary offered.

I smiled at his efforts; he was lying. He was trying, at least, but I knew that strained look of his when he tried to be romantic, or remotely spontaneous.

He refused to bend to a bit of spontaneity; everything had to be a certain way, a certain thing, in a certain time. He'd come home after work, turn on the television from 4pm, and we'd have dinner strictly at 7pm; we wouldn't finish dinner until seven-thirty (even if our plates were wiped clean) and then from 7:30 to 8:30pm, he'd sit in his office, working. At eight-thirty, he readied for bed . At nine o'clock, he always scheduled time for me (giggity). He was so predictable, I could schedule his orgasms. From that point on, he slept until the next morning, and here we were.

Gary leaned forward to kiss me again, but I stopped him.

"What's wrong...honey?"

"Don't call me 'honey'." I told him softly. "It doesn't sound natural coming from you."

"But I thought you wanted me to call you 'honey'."

"Not if you have to force it."

"I can't help how I say it."

"I don't want you to call me pet names because you feel you need to. I don't want you obligated to call me sweet things," I responded. My tone was bitingly callous, and I heard it just as soon as it came out. When Gary frowned deeply, I shook my head, forcing my calm back.

To amend what damage had been done, I kissed his cheek.

"Look," I said softly. "I don't want you to call me 'honey' if you feel obligated to. It was only a suggestion. I want you to _want_ to call me 'honey'."

"I'm incapable of using pet names, Katelynn."

"Then don't use them." I returned.

"But you want me to."

"What did I just finish saying!" I snapped. "I don't want you to feel obligated!"

"Now you're yelling at me," Gary responded unhappily.

He touched my face again, attempting to calm me down. But I wanted no such comfort. When I took his hands off my face, Gary stared at me, surprised by my protest. The look of defeat shrouded the attempted sweetness he attempted to convey earlier as my rejection caused his encouraging smile to turn downward into an unhappy frown.

"We'll talk about this later."

"Fine." I said. "But we won't."

"I'm getting late for work, Katelynn. We'll talk about this tonight."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." I hissed.

Gary frowned: "My word is good."

"Your word isn't anything, Gary." I uttered. "You tell me we'll talk about it later, but we don't. You say we'll have something different tonight, but we watch the same program on television, and we eat the same dinner on the same weekday."

"I give you my word we will talk about all of this tonight."

"And I can give you _my _word, that we won't." I retaliated. "I'm picking up a shift tonight."

Gary blinked.

"Tonight?" he repeated.

"Yes," I confirmed. "_Tonight_."

"But you're off tonight."

"Not as of this morning," I stated. "Officer Prathart called me this morning; his wife is sick and he has no one else to come in for him tonight. So I said I would."

"That's the tenth time this month that someone in his family, including himself, is 'sick'." Gary stated. He sat his briefcase on the floor, and looked at me with such disappointment that I recoiled from his hands that held my shoulders gently.

"The man has two children and a cancerous wife, Gary." I stated. "You want me to tell him I said 'no' because _you_ can't deal without me for one night? Fine. Here." I thrusted my hand down the front of my jean pants, and held out the phone to him. "Call."

"You gave your word you would work for him tonight," Gary stated, although his voice seethed with unhappiness. "I wish you would have told me this a lot earlier."

"I didn't know myself until I got the call this morning, Gary. Not everything can go according to your plans."

"The stuff that can go according to my plan normally lets me know what's going on before it actually happens," Gary reasoned. He shook his head and fidgeted with his hands, then sighed with an attempt at sheer calm. He was losing his cool though—the thought of me being absent from six in the afternoon to six the next morning...well, that didn't surprise me.

"You can call me when you need me," I offered uncertainly.

I wasn't sure that Gary wouldn't have a heart attack. His breathing was erratic, and the constant motion of his hand stroking through his hair made me wonder if he was going to pass out any time soon.

"Katelynn, Katelynn..." He muttered. "Are you sure you can't...you know, get someone else to cover? I mean, we had plans tonight and..."

"_You_ had plans." I returned. "And no, I'm not rescheduling. Officer Prathart has no one else. Everyone else brushes him off. Personally I don't mind taking the night shift—it'll be quiet and I've not taken that shift in a while."

"The last time you took the shift..."

"I know, I know." I hissed. I frowned: "You said you wouldn't bring that up again. You promised."

Gary brought his hands to his mouth—evidently, he just remembered one of his promises and I glowered at him for reminding me. _As if I needed to be reminded_.

"Things have changed," I stated certainly (more confident than what I really felt). "Security has tightened, and there is more than one guard for Level 2—maximum security has definitely maximized since that incident." I held up my hands in a lazy surrender: "God forbid something bad should happen again."

"Katelynn, I don't feel comfortable with you being in that asylum after hours. Those criminals, those, those..._freaks_."

I frowned: "They're not freaks. They're just different."

"God, Katelynn. And you wonder why Zsasswas able to get to _you_first!" Gary snapped; he grabbed my shoulders and shook me: "I can't bear to see you get hurt again, Katelynn, god, I can't—and I won't! You call that Prathart, you call him! You tell him you can't make it in today! You tell him you..."

I threw Gary's hands off me, and pushed his back against the wall. My reaction was to choke him for barking orders at me. I was not a woman with whom to be tampered, and yet...that passion and _dominance_. I smiled at him when Gary suddenly lost his passionate side, and his controlling, calm, and sedated personality returned.

Gary was Gary—in a suit, no matter what the occasion.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he quickly apologized. "That was very...very rude of me. Look, Katelynn. I love you, I do. But...you can't..."

"I can." I told him coldly. "I _will_ work tonight. You can't decide what I will or will not do. I'm not one of your scheduled events that have to happen sharply. I'm not a predictable dog, and I'm _certainly_ not a woman who goes against her word. I said I'd take the graveyard shift tonight—and not you or any patient will intimidate. _Especially_ you." I poked my finger into his chest awfully hard.

Gary blinked; he was surprised my by ill reserve. Admittedly, I was surprised I'd held in my anger this long. I was hot-tempered, whereas he was always capable of expressing his temper in a less than volatile manner. Sometimes, I wished he'd match me. Sometimes, I wish I could see him throw a few dishes, shatter some glass, or watch him shout at me with no reserve. The man was too in control of his emotions.

"What if Victor Zsass..."

"Hurts me again?" I finished without hesitation. I smiled coldly: "He won't. Even if there weren't any guards, I'd be safe."

"Why? Why do you think that?" Gary asked.

I shrugged: "I understand the patients at Arkham, Gary. And..." I frowned: "**I** don't call them freaks. They deserve just as much respect as you crave and I desire. The only difference between them and you—and me—is that they wanted it a little more and a little sooner. Funny thing: some of them show me respect in turn; now I wonder why _that_ is."

"You're talking as if you'd want to be one of them," Gary whispered.

I shrugged, and said nothing.

"Fine. Work tonight." Gary uttered. "Do what you want. But know this."

"I know, I know," I stated. "You'll be calling me every hour upon the hour."

Gary frowned when I was able to read his mind again.

"Katelynn." He said as he opened the door and picked up his suitcase.

"What."

"I really _do_ love you." Gary whispered.

"And I, you." I returned.

He smiled and then walked to his car. I watched after him, and as I watched him drive away, I uttered to a low volume where not even the closest neighbor could hear:

"...But I've been wrong before."

/ / /

Author's Note (2): Joker will come up in the next chapter, I promise! :)


	3. Meet The Staff

**I've Been Wrong Before**

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Author's Note: XD

Disclaimer: The lyrics featured in this chapter are for a song called "Super Psycho Love" by Simon Curtis. Listen to it—_It's addicting_. Ringtone on Kate's phone is from Miley Cyrus' "Wrecking Ball", also a great song! :D

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_Chapter Three: Meet The Staff_

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_Something 'bout you drives me crazy_

_has to do with how make me_

_struggle to get your attention_

_calling you brings apprehension_

_Texts from you_

_and sex from you _

_are things that are not so uncommon_

_flirt with you, you're all about it_

_tell me why I feel unwanted..._

The chorus was about to set in to one of my favorite songs, but my climax towards hearing that beautiful erotic drum playing on my radio had to be turned down so I could quiet the ringtone my phone was screaming, "_I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL! I NEVER HIT SO HARD IN LOVE!" _I would have let it play out until I saw the lock screen, reading the familiar name, "Lyle Bolton."

At that moment, I really _did_ consider letting it ring.

I slid the lock screen to the right, and placed my touchscreen smart phone to my ear, wishing to god that the other person would just hope that they'd dialed the wrong number. Or something bad happened at work and that was the _only_ reason Head of Security Lyle Bolton was calling me at 5:30pm. When I answered the phone, I heard two other voices in the background besides the deep tone of an irritated Bolton.

"What." I answered flatly.

"Parthart just called in," said Bolton.

"And?"

"Are you coming in for him?" Bolton assumed.

I rolled my eyes—I silenced one of my favorite songs for _this_? Correction: I silenced one of my favorite songs for _him_? I rolled my eyes again, this time out of pure pleasure knowing he couldn't see my sarcastic nonverbal response.

As one could clearly note: I didn't like Bolton. For more than just the fact he thought everyone should answer to him just because he was made Head of Security. Granted, his methods of keeping the patients in order were currently suspicious to _me_, they somehow worked. There had not been another massive outbreak since Gotham's Water Supply all went airborne and the fear toxin had been unleashed.

Thank god that reign of tyranny had been at a decline.

I couldn't wait for that day to be over...uh...in more ways than one.

"RICHARDSON!"

"_What_?" I snapped.

"_Are you_ coming **in** for Prathart?"

"_Yes,_" I snarled in the same snobbish one, "**I** _am_. Who else would come in for him?"

"No need to snap."

"All due respect, Lyle, _you_ snapped first."

"I'm Head of Security, Richardson. You could try to be a little polite."

"Sorry. With all due respect, Head of Security, I don't owe you the kindness." I hissed sarcastically.

I could hear Lyle laughing on the other line. And then a couple of the other voices I heard were tittering. The bastard had me on speakerphone. I only knew this because the other voices came in clear as day—had I not known they were there, I might have guessed my mind to be playing tricks on me. (Lets have a big conversation with Kate's mind, come on; you know she likes to talk to herself).

I smiled wickedly: Sometimes, my own company was better than anyone else's. And that was the truth.

From the speaker phone, I could hear Scott Pritchard saying, "Don't forget to tell her we have a meeting. I want to get this thing done so I can go home—my wife's already worrying about me."

"Not as worried as she'd be knowing what you've got going on with Kate," chuckled Cecil O'Brien.

"Not as worried as _your_ wife should be," Scott snapped.

I smirked.

Scott Pritchard may had well been my own father, bordering the age of forty-five, but he acted every bit like twenty-years-old. He was a lanky man with an aged face, but I've seen him run faster than me, and I was only twenty-five. He was well built in the legs, which gave him the excuse of having such a thin upper frame. He possessed a pair of blue eyes that could charm women—young and old—to give him an extra piece of pie after he had dinner and two desserts already. And what's more: he knew it, but never flaunted it.

Cecil O'Brien was nothing like him. He was my age, granted. Black messy hair, never combed. Black beard that always had some type of food crumbs in there, and his teeth were mangled after never having been brought to a dentist; he chewed tobacco seemingly twenty-four/seven. Forget the fact that he had a wife and a son about to be born; he made passes on all the female guards, including myself.

Between these two, and the big ol' chief Lyle Bolton himself, one could see why I had to be the more ethnic, cool-headed guard around Arkham Asylum.

Pulling into the parking lot, I recognized Cullson Dipperson's vehicle; he drove an old truck that suffered two fender benders in the same spot, but it somehow still seemed to keep on trucking, just like the middle-aged African American. Cullson was a good man, but kept to himself. Supposing he could be this way, considering he was a housekeeper for Arkham Asylum on the night shift.

As I observed the fact he had a new fender bender in the right of his truck, I carried my coffee in one hand and shut the door with a thrust of my backside into my car, while holding my phone in my right hand, walking up the paved drive to Arkham; the building itself cast a creepy shadow—the night only made it ten times creepy. I shudder briefly.

Placing my phone between neck and shoulder, I touched my hand to my badge and scanned it over the alarm system; it made a small 'ding' and then asked for my thumb print. In doing so, it registered it as "Katelynn Richardson", then I recognized the familiar loud latch of the door unlocking. I slipped inside then continued my conversation with Lyle Bolton, side-stepping the elevator in favor for the stairs.

"I'll talk to you in person," I stated. "I'm almost up the stairs."

"I don't know why you can't take the elevator like a normal person. That's two freaking flights." Cecil O'Brien stated; his voice was slightly nasally—looks like the man was getting some kind of cold.

"Conformity is for losers." I retaliated politely, "And it's quicker. And there's only one flight of stairs, Idiot."

Scott Pritchard's laughter that followed made me smile; perhaps Cecil had looked confused for Scott added, "The second case of stairs leads to the roof, O'Brien. One between First and Second Level, and the second case..."

"Shut up, Old Man. I know how many cases there are!"

"Shut up, both of ya," Lyle snarled. "Who cares how many stairs there are—Richardson, are you up them yet?"

I shook my head. Sometimes I wanted to punch all of them in mouth just for equal measure. Their laughter ceased when I opened the door to the break room, seeing three men sitting around a large square-shaped table. A small couch had been placed in the breakroom for rest and comfort, and the kitchen area (3 counters, one sink, one microwave) was in remedial condition: my husband would flip if he saw how untidy these people could be.

"Back from the dead?" offered Scott Pritchard. He offered to take my thermos of coffee, and I handed it to him; being the old-fashioned guy he was, Scott had made a pot of coffee, knowing my sweet addiction to the drug, and poured me a fresh batch into the thermos. I nodded to him in silent thanks, and Scott simply smiled.

"Anything for you, dear."

"Aw, thanks, hon." I returned, chuckling when Scott winked at me.

"Shut up, love birds." Lyle stated.

I looked at him.

"You know," I said coolly, "Just because you got that promotion, doesn't mean you can be a spiteful little bush hog to your fellow men whenever you see fit."

Cecil O'Brien, the little putz, only shook his head as if he felt the same way I did. I'd be a liar to say he was showing his true colors. Trust me: the moment Lyle would walk out of this room, he'd be crawling on my coat tails, saying I was in the right. But when Lyle Bolton, who was twice the size of me in fat and muscle, stepped towards me to say what's what, Cecil was grinning devilishly, awaiting my proper punishment.

However, Lyle knew me better.

He smiled at me sarcastically, and offered me the keys to the entire asylum.

"These are for you," Lyle said. "Prathart was going to be the only guard here—it's not going to be any different for you."

"I'd sure hope not," I responded smoothly. I took the keys from him before he could play 'keep-away'. Lyle grinned at me when Cecil O'Brien's face fell. What Cecil had expected was beyond me: Lyle knew that I wasn't easily intimidated. So threatening me with mild punishments of demerits and 'Big Boy' talk would have been insult to injury—if anything had been injured in the process.

"So I'm going to be the only one in here for the entire place?" I stated, making sure I knew this was clear.

"Yeah," Lyle said. He shrugged. "Other than Dipperson, but that fucker ain't gonna be any trouble."

"You don't have to call him names." I stated. "He's done nothing to you."

"I don't like him," Cecil acknowledged pointedly. "He's a weird motherfucker. He doesn't say anything to you—just nods and goes."

"Funnily enough, I like him for that reason." I retaliated curtly. "You'd do well to learn a few things from _him_."

"Nigger ain't—"

Cecil grunted and fell on the floor.

Lyle turned to me incredulously as I lowered my fist to my side, glowering at Cecil as if I could shoot lasers from my eyeballs. If I could, he'd be fried, and I'd be eating his insides while wearing his skin like a coat for the next winter. Meanwhile, Scott Pritchard simply shook his head and smiled—Cecil knew better than to bad talk my friends in front of me.

"You know, I could write you up for that," said Lyle calmly. He held out a hand to help up Cecil, who took it as he rubbed his jaw. "That's an assault on your own 'fellow man'; I figured a person like you would respect that among friends."

I stared directly at Cecil and said coldly, "He's no friend of mine."

"Fine," said Cecil, shrugging. "You're probably too tight for me, anyway."

My jaw dropped at his sexual remark. At the same time, Lyle frowned and glared at Cecil.

"That's your second strike, O'Brien."

"_Second_?" exclaimed Cecil.

Lyle raised a hand to him, pointing at his face: "You talk bad about another co-worker of mine, Cecil, and we're gonna start throwing more than just racist and sexist insults. I don't like Dipperson and I don't like Richardson, but I'm not holding their ethnicity or gender against them—and I don't wanna hear another retort like that out of your mouth again. Or I'm putting you with the inmates in Maximum Security."

Cecil frowned at Lyle (oh no, the ass he'd been kissing wasn't sticking up for him, how awful!). Despite all of this, I simply smiled at Lyle...he and I didn't get along, but he still had plenty of respect for me as I was a woman working in a raunchy place like Arkham Asylum.

Cecil shook his head, thrust his arms in the air of pure frustration and walked out of the breakroom, taking care to bump his shoulder against mine for equal measure. As he walked out, Lyle turned to me, his features sharpened.

"The place has been quiet all night," Lyle commented. "Not a peep out of the prisoners since the incident earlier this morning. A few hollered, a small fight but nothing worth checking twice." He shrugged: "No massive breakouts, hopefully, but if there is one, don't be trying to reason with any of the prisoners. You know what happened last time, I hope."

Scott Pritchard wrapped his arm around my shoulders as he looked pointedly at Lyle, saying, "I don't think anyone—especially Kate—will forget about that time, Lyle."

"Right," Lyle said, nodding. He turned to me: "If you _do_ have a problem, and you can't handle it, call. You annoy the hell out of me, but that doesn't mean I won't jump to save your skin."

"Great, thanks. You bug the hell out of me too." I returned the sentiment.

Lyle nodded, serious as ever.

"And," said Lyle unhappily, "I'm sorry I brought it up. I know you're trying to forget...but really, that was a stupid move."

I frowned, "I tried saving the rest of you."

"We didn't need to be saved—all of us handled ourselves." Lyle insisted. He glanced at Scott, saying, "You got hurt in the process."

"It was a scratch."

"It left a scar." Lyle stated pointedly. He pointed to my neck. "Victor Zsass was a fucking crazy, Kate. I hope if it happens again, you don't try to reason with him. I hope after that crap you learned that some people can't be bought with words, or paid off with kindness. It takes a firm hand—some discipline..."

"I _know_." I snapped. I frowned at Lyle: "I was niave, then. I know what I know now. Now stop bringing it up—it's been two fucking years since that's happened. Everyone stop bringing it up! I'm not a victim, you know."

Lyle shrugged and said apathetically, "Fine. I won't bring it up."

"Liar." I uttered knowingly.

Lyle shrugged again: "I'm going to bed. Be careful—don't forget, this place locks up after eight o'clock. No visitors, no patients wandering around. Nothing. All the doors need to be checked. Here's your radio..." He undid the clasp from his holster belt and handed the walkie talkie to me, and I clasped it to my own holster beside my gun and flashlight. "The staff know you're working here so they'll come to you if they have any weird behavior or any fights, or whatever else they ask for."

"I know the procedure," I acknowledged sarcastically.

Lyle shrugged again (why did he have to act so careless), "I'm just giving you the report."

"I worked nights before."

"And look what happened?" Lyle slipped. He pursed his lips when he realized he reminded me (yet again) that I had fallen victim to the most recent mass break out of patients. Too bad I couldn't put on a mask, spray the same airborne fear toxin into his face, and let him get a glimpse of just how bad I wanted him to beg for my forgiveness.

But sadly, that didn't happen.

But Lyle _did_ look apologetic.

"How about we go for a drink," Scott offered, smiling at Lyle. "I could use a drink." He turned to me: "I'd offer you a round but you know."

"I have my pot of coffee," I said, politely declining. "Besides, I'd hate for the hubby to know I was actually having fun on the job."

Lyle walked out of the room, having no further interest in the conversation. Scott's face softened at my comment towards my monotonous marriage, and he touched my face with his hand; softer than most cop hands it took me by surprise.

"Had another fight?" he asked.

"It wasn't a fight," I returned. "A small disagreement."

"Couples fight, Kate. It's just natural."

"I cause most of them." I returned unhappily. "How many times we've disagreed, it's been my doing. But I can't help it—he's so infuriating, so well-put-together. He doesn't get angry, he's not violent, or rough...he's..."

"Perfect?" offered Scott encouragingly.

"Yes." I muttered.

"And that's...bad?"

"It's not bad." I insisted.

Scott smiled and said, "Sometimes, the bad can get worse. You're lucky to have him—a mature man with the only flaw is having bad sexual experiences. If I wasn't married, I'd give you an interesting time."

"Thanks, Scott. That really helps." I giggled.

Scott shrugged: "Glad to see a smile. I'm joking, of course. My old lady gets my rod so hard, I don't know what to do with myself half the time she's away."

I cracked up when Scott mocked confusion. He pat my shoulder.

"Take it easy, Kate. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Take it easy," I returned.

Then Scott left.

I sauntered from the break room to the main station—it was basically a large cubicle with many, many cameras. All of them were in the halls, bathrooms, lounges, nurses stations, lobby, and break rooms. Watching Lyle and Cecil leave as they laughed their asses off over god-only-knows-what, I felt isolated. Even if I did hate Lyle's guts, and even if I did despise Cecil to the utmost degree of hatred, I could at least relieve my swelling anger that regenerated. I frowned...I wish I had the same kind of disagreements with Gary; At least then there would be some passion in it.

My eyes caught Scott's as he stepped into the elevator. Knowing I was at the cameras, he waved in a goofy manner; in seeing that, I laughed my ass off as I drank my coffee. When I heard shuffling behind me, I turned slowly to see Cullson Dipperson, the colored Housekeeper, getting the trash cans behind me. When he saw me looking at him, he smiled.

"Hi, Cullson."  
He waved.

"Working hard or hardly working?" I offered.

Cullson held up his head at me, blinked, and then made a silent laugh, grinning widely. A pair of rectangular glasses decorated his nose bridge, and I commented on them being new. He nodded with the confirmation he'd just gotten them.

"I like them," I said. "They make you look sophisticated."

Cullson waved his hand at me as he blushed. He looked at me curiously as if he'd noticed the time and I answered his silent question, "Prathart called in—so, naturally here I am."

Cullson rolled his eyes.

"My sentiments exactly," I replied.

Cullson finished getting the garbage and he waved good-bye to me.

"Lunch later?" I offered.

Cullson nodded.

"See ya then." I said, and I looked back at the cameras.

(())

To check one entrance of the hospital and to walk all the way to the other side of the hospital and check that entrance took approximately thirty to thirty-five minutes. It was a matter of unlocking the door, and then waiting for it to register the badge, and then wait for it to lock completely. It was basically watching gears undo themselves only to relatch together five minutes later. And the walk to the other side of the hospital was what took the longest. With a flash light in one hand while my right hand remained on my holster, ready to cock, aim, and shoot any wandering passerby that wasn't a doctor, nurse, or Cullson Dipperson, I started on my way.

The radio on my holster emitted static, so I unlatched it from my waist, turned it on, and spoke into the phone: "This is Officer Katelynn Richardson. What's up?"

"This is the nurse's station," responded the strict tone that was remarkably familiar.

"Catherine?" I questioned.

"Kate? What are you doing on the night shift?"

"Oh, working for a co-worker," I responded.

"Prathart?" Catherine voiced unhappily.

"How'd you guess?" I returned sarcastically.

"I doubt that man has worked a day in his life," Catherine voiced—she was actually fifty years old but her catty tones made her seem a little older than what she appeared; at the mid-fifty age, she could look anywhere from a spring chicken of forty to ninety years old—depending on her mood and whether or not she'd ever stop smoking cigarettes. That habit causes a lot of good-gene people to prematurely age before they knew what was happening to them.

Personally, I never picked up the habit. Gary was nit-picky at the smallest thing; that would just open a can of worms and that wasn't what I needed right now. In response to Catherine's snide remark, I could only chuckle derisively, feeling very much the same way. But I reminded myself that surely Prathart had called off for a reason: a sick wife, or possibly two sick children. Whatever the reason, it wasn't my business so I didn't dwell on it very long.

"Are you all having trouble?" asked I.

"Not sure—the nurses and I have been seeing this person walk around the building. I doubt he's a patient—we just did a count and all of them are counted for. So we might think it's a hostile visitor. Closing hours are eight, right?"

"Mmhmm," I answered. I glanced at my watch: 8:30pm. "So you think he's just lost?"  
"I don't know what he is or why he is, but I don't like the looks of it." Catherine returned.

I nodded—Catherine was a hardy woman. So anything that scared her was worth looking into; so I said into the walkie talkie, "I'll be on my way. Give me about ten minutes."

"Sure thing." Catherine returned calmly.

Quickly as I could, I walked down through the hospital—down this hallway, turn left, turn right, turn left, right, left, right, straight, curve...It had taken me _months_ to wander around this hospital. These days, I knew the damn thing like the architect had drawn the blueprints on my hand.

Don't mind my attitude at the moment: I never liked hostile visitors. In Gotham City, I always reckoned they'd be shooting up Gotham Elementary School or blowing up a second hospital as Gotham General Hospital had suffered—not shooting up a place like Arkham Asylum. For god's sake, this place was already beaten and broken; it was a surprise the ceiling didn't come crashing down on all of us.

Point being, the thought of a hostile takeover was skeptical, but I took it seriously _just_ in case. After all, I'd been naïve once and it had cost me a month in the hospital, and then two weeks to have the stitches completely heal, and that didn't keep me from having a nice white scar on the right side of my neck, just a little over my throat—it was a wonder I hadn't bled to death. Thank god for Cullson Dipperson...if not for him, I'd be dead.

I happened upon the nurse's station—it was a large area. The computers and desks stretched down one big column of the area, and the rest of it was hallway. Two halls across the desks were reserved for the mentally ill patients, but these patients were only level 1 security; they required supervision, of course, and some couldn't be trusted with forks or knives, but the rest were minimal damage. Some were just too tedious to belong in a regular hospital and so were placed here.

I turned my attention from the hallways and found Catherine at a desk. Today, she looked almost my age; a smile on her face practically radiated relief upon seeing me. Naturally, she was up in a flash—quicker than what I suspected out of her age—and placed a hand on my shoulder, checking me out like usual. You see, Catherine was a lesbian so she never failed to admire my cop attire.

"Turn around, I wanna see that ass." Catherine said smirking when I did as she asked. Seeing it, she said, "Damn, that husband of yours is lucky."

"No doubt." I replied unenthusiastically. I holstered my flashlight. "Where's the visitor?"

"I don't know," Catherine returned seriously. "He's not been around since he saw me pick up the phone; guess he realized visiting hours were over. You know people—they can't read the effing signs. Guess there wasn't anything to worry about after all."

I shrugged, "May be not." I smiled at her ironically, adding, "But I've been wrong before."

"Right, right—of course—better safe than sorry." Catherine allowed; she shrugged, "Do you want a cookie? The other nurses and I have been stuffing our faces with these cookies Kayla brought in. Why she thinks she must fatten us up before Thanksgiving is beyond me."

Catherine made a gesture so I followed her—after all, it wasn't up to me whether or not I received my designated cookie. Leading me into their breakroom, Catherine shown me the variety of cookies, fudge brownies, cake, and assortment of candies that Kayla (one of the younger nurses) had taken upon herself to bake. Kayla was no more younger than me, but she baked as though she'd been around for decades and learned the famous of chefs' recipes. She could go places with culinary skills that she possessed, but she claimed that patients directed her career, and her love for baking was merely a hobby.

Why she insisted on the former was beyond me.

Catherine ate a cookie, and I watched her. Catherine had bright red hair—unnaturally bright red—and it hid her gray hairs forming. She had rimless glasses and tightened face, as if she held a lot of stress where her cheeks were. But aside from her neon hair, her tightened muscles, and the weird way she held cookies (as if she were eating a fancy cup of tea like the Brits in London), Catherine was likable in more ways than one.

"So how's that husband of yours?" asked Catherine flatly, sitting at the desk she'd been at earlier before my arrival. I leaned my lower back against the desk, caring not to sit down in any case some emergency popped up.

"Not too bad," I returned.

"You don't talk much about him," offered Catherine.

"There's not much of which I care to talk about." I said smoothly.

"Don't love him anymore?"

"Of _course_ I do."

"Spark not there?"

I frowned, and Catherine caught my retort.

"Fine, don't talk about your personal life," Catherine sighed. "But you know, your whole mysterious get-up keeps the men wanting you, you know. You don't talk about your personal life, you don't talk about your husband. I mean, aside from knowing you like sweets, coffee, and your job, I don't know a thing about you."

I smiled weakly, saying, "Then you're in the same boat as everyone else in this hospital."

Catherine shook her head, responding, "You know, I could care to bet that Gary doesn't even know your favorite color."

"He's my husband. He knows enough about me." I told her.

"But not the personal things," Catherine voiced.

I frowned at her again, so Catherine finished her cookie and held her hands up in the air as if I had a gun to her back. She smiled serenely.

"I'm just making conversation." She said.

The call light of a patient room was going off so Catherine pressed a button on the system and said, "This is the Nurse's Station. I see that your light is on; How may I help you?"

"_GET THE RATS OFF! GET THE RATS! KILL THEM! GET!" _

Catherine lifted her finger off the button so the voice died from the speakers but that didn't keep me from looking up in one of the hallways, hearing the same kind of horrified screaming come from one of the patient rooms. I glanced uncertainly at Catherine, who waved her hand dismissively.

"It's one of the patients—she gets like this around this time of night. Give it time; she'll lie down and go back to sleep." Catherine stated carelessly.

I bit my lip, worried naturally for the patient when the screaming intensified. However, I knew little of the patients on the vicinity so I bid Catherine a swift good-bye and went up the stairs to check Level 2.

Maximum Security.

Oh boy.

(())

Level 2 had a whole separate nurse's station, and nursing crew. For high maintenance criminals, it was necessary to keep many nurses around in any case one of them decided to get extra excited. Two orderlies, preferably males, were a constant necessity for extra muscle; in accordance, there were two nurses (female or male) who would go in together to give treatments or pills. The nurses station was half as big as the one on Level 2, with three computers (one for each of the two nurses, and another for the orderlies) so they charted hourly.

I finished up the stairs and checked the alarms on the doors to make sure they were in working order. As I did so, I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders and immediately, I took out my gun, cocked and raised it over my shoulder as I turned quickly, aiming at the intruder. When I saw it was only Devonna, I frowned.

"Girl, you can _not_ do that to me," I sighed with great relief, and simultaneously, irritability.

Devonna was a beautiful Asian woman with long black hair, green eyes, and a smile that was normally planted on her face upon seeing me. When I saw her, she was still staring at me in shock with her hands raised to defend herself—not that it would do much good against a loaded gun. However, I holstered the damned thing and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry," Devonna said softly. "I forget how jumpy you are."

"I'm not jumpy; you startled me." I returned smoothly.

"Right—well, why are you even here?" asked Devonna sweetly. "I thought you were on days now."

"I was. I am. Still." I stated. I shrugged: "Prathart called in."

"Again? I thought he was..."

"Sick?" I finished, smirking. "No. His wife is."

"Yeah but she's always up and about," Devonna said as she returned to her position at the nurse's station. "And his two boys are always really healthy."

"I don't know, Devonna. I just work here." I stated, folding my hands inside my pockets. "Personally, I don't mind; it's a nice change from the day shift job."

"Oh, you like change, huh?"

I heard the small tease and said seriously, "I do. It's Gary that doesn't."

"Oh right, right," Devonna returned, shaking her head. She held her hand out to the hall, saying, "All the patients have been quiet. Kinda weird, actually. Most of them are yelling and stuff but you're more than welcome to go in there and take a look. I doubt any of them will talk though." She made a gesture and said, "Lots of them take sleeping pills."

I decided to check on the matter anyway.

(())

In order to get into Level 2 security, one has to pass through a large metal door. A metal detecting device is wedged in the door frame so any metal-wearing visitor (if anyone ever visited) would sound the alarm, alerting the guard to any guns, knives, braces, pens, cell phones, or any other sharp devices that can be used as a weapon. I disarmed the device, in ode to the fact that I knew I was a cop, and I had guns and cell phones on me, but I didn't want the alarm to emit loud, annoying noise.

When I opened the door, I was met with a very long hallway, white on the walls and tile. The silence wasn't as thick as I'd liked it to be. I heard a few patients quietly humming themselves a tainted lullaby, and others were muttering to themselves in soft, spoken tones.

The doors to their cells weren't bars, nor large metal white doors as one would be led to believe. They were almost like windows without knobs. You could see them through their mesh-looking windows but the material itself was far from being mesh or wire—it was pure metallic iron. Despite the barrier, it was direct eye contact—and one could see inside the cell.

The patients each had a bed. And that was all the décor Dr. Jeremiah Arkham thought was needed to befit an insane criminal. I somewhat agreed with the man.

I walked down the hall, glancing in the cells each as I walked by.

There was Kart Carter, Patient 3322. The number isn't coincidental; he was a man that needed two of everything, think of an obsessive Noah on the Ark. He needed two beds, he needed two windows, two trays of food, two cans to shit in, and two of each number in his patient number. So the doctors gave him one: 3322. It's why there are two 'Kart/Cart's in his name. His real name is Kart Carver, but the name—quite literally—drove him to madness. He was quiet in his cell, dreaming of two dreams probably. What made him 'criminally insane' was that he killed his sister by accident, but he needed a second person to die in order for him to feel 'comfortable'. So he killed his mother. This led him to criminality, and ultimately, here. What made him so physically dangerous to place him with Level 2 candidates was that after he 'accidentally' killed one, he'd have to intentionally kill a second (whether or not he wanted to do so). It had become such an epidemic, he was eventually placed in here.

The second worth-mentioning candidate was Calypso Jenkins.

Don't be fooled—she is no goddess.

Calypso's real name is Deanna but naturally, no criminal here goes by their real alias, and if they do, they're just as odd as the next one beside them. Calypso, in her prime, was a beautiful actress—a regular in drama shows, and even a few hits. She was an aspiring model as well until a man broke her heart. Her pride was damaged and she wanted all men to pay for their foul deeds so she forced them all to eat with pigs and live like pigs, and feed like pigs—she went as far as attempting to make them have sex with the pigs until her plans were destroyed by the unlikeliest of people. Kart Carter.

Yep. You heard, right. I was stumped myself.

Kart Carter had infiltrated her odd farm and killed a pig. All pigs had their 'soul mate' and when this happened, Calypso went stark-raving mad and almost killed Carter. Needless to say, the idea of humans being remotely tied to pigs (however physical or mentally) was deemed completely maddening so Calypso joined the family. To my knowledge, she refuses to speak to Kart. The irony of the situation is that if Calypso had let Carter go on, he'd have killed a second pig and thus equalized all things back to their 360 origin.

The next one made me frown.

Surely, by now, you've recognized the history between myself and this patient. Seeing him, I frowned so deeply that I could have made a Golden Gate Bridge on my face.

He was bald at the head, but had (admittedly) a neatly trimmed beard that co-aligned with his neatly trimmed mustache. His eyes were hazel gray, but when I glanced into them, they were completely cold and empty. However, the smile that curved his high cheekbones sent me mixed signals. He sat at his bed initially, until he saw me; doing so, he walked up to the window with his hands on the bars (which were inside the window) and grinned toothily at me.

"Hi, beautiful Zombie."

I shuddered.

He called all of his victims and people in general, 'Zombies'. His soul purpose in life (get ready for delusions of granduer) was to 'liberate' (his word, not mine) us from our pointless lives. On his skin, he carved a tally in himself for each 'liberation' he committed, and doing so, he would set his victims in a life-like position. He had a fascination for it, I suppose.

He glanced at my own tally mark on my neck—he made it for me.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing _you_ again," Victor breathed, grinning at me. "How's the neck?"

"Better." I commented.

I felt my hand move but I didn't realize it was on my holster gun until Victor breathed a cold chuckle in my direction.

"You weren't so jumpy last time we met," Victor reminded. "Not so comfortable around me, are you?"

I didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"I guess you don't like talking to people, huh?" Victor challenged.

I wanted to say "Fuck off" but someone else did it for me. Someone in the cell behind me. I recognized that deep voice from anywhere—particularly on the television in which a batman-fraud had been brutally murdered and later exploited, Brian Douglas...the deep drawl, the nasal tone, and the sarcastic voice. I recognized it, so I needn't turn around to see a Chelsea grin that elongated the jagged scars. I didn't need to turn around to know that it was the Joker. But I heard his response.

"**Maybe**," he drawled, "She likes_ talking_ to **people**."

Seeing Victor Zsass frown deeply made my heart melt. I turned to look at my defender. And admittedly, I was shocked. Without his usual make-up which he adorned every time I saw him on the television or camera, he looked a completely different person.

"_Maybe_," he continued in that mellow drawl, "She _just_ doesn't like talking to_**you**_."


	4. Lovely Company

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

Author's Note: _God, I'm sorry for the late updates. I'm normally not this slow on the updating process. *_**_slaps wrist_**_* _

_Tell me what you think :D _

_**/ **_

**Chapter Four: Lovely Company**

**\\**

_Maybe she just doesn't like talking to **you**. _

Seeing Victor Zsass frown as deeply as he did, I turned to look at my defender.

Personally, I'd never met the prisoner, not even when he was first captured and brought to Arkham for 'treatment'. He'd only been here a few months, but already, entering as he did, Joker had established a reputation. Blowing up Gotham General had been the high point of his career as a professional criminal—robbing the mob blind was just bonus.

His mellow drawl was a ringing to my memory; how he appeared on television was no identical to his appearance currently. While he'd taped the brute torture of Brian Douglas (one of many who were aspiring to be Batman in many more ways than one), I'd grown to familiarize myself with the white greasepaint, charcoal-ringed eyes, and lipstick stains. It wasn't so much of a 'nightmare' as it was a comfort...

For some reason, I found the idea of a criminal matching our vigilante's theatricality comforting. At least with Joker around, I could retreat to my reality that Batman was, after all, just a man in a cape and he happened to know a few gut-pounding moves to save his ass when it came down to it.

Joker was the same way...although, I hardly doubted—at times—he was a man at all.

The smile he sent Zsass now was placed in my direction, the latter forgotten.

"What's it to you, Clown, who she wants or doesn't want to talk to?" questioned Victor.

He stood behind me in his own rotting cell but I didn't need to turn around to figure he was all the way at the window, fingers groping the bars with an intent to kill. The victim, being me or possibly the 'clown' in front of me, was uncertain. But I could hear the grinding of his teeth just barely over the harsh deliberation he spat through the bars.

"Oh," Joker drawled from behind the bars; he sat in his bed, back against the wall with his knees bent; his hands laid lazily on his thighs as if he were waiting patiently for a doctor's visit, not sitting in a cell meant for crazies. Joker smirked past me at Victor, adding, "It's no concern of mine who she talks to—I'm only pointing out the obvious."

"No one was talking to you." Victor growled.

"Funny how _that_ suddenly matters." Joker responded calmly.

I couldn't suppress a smile when Victor spat on the floor and then returned to the wall of his cell; his intentions were pure murder, but I Reckoned the only thing he had better to do than sulk in his cell was to seethe. And seethe, he did. The mutters of curses that trailed from his licentious tongue made my jaw drop. But I couldn't deny it—some of the patients I favorited.

And while I'd never been up in Maximum Security for save only that one time, I believed Joker was already turning out to be one of my favorites. His lucid disposition, the relaxed smile he sent me, and the interesting gaze his eyes suggested only made me wonder if he wasn't so much a prisoner in this asylum, rather more like a _guest._

That got me thinking.

I disobeyed one of the several rules on Level 2—only never realizing at that point that I'd be disobeying all of them before my time at Arkham was served. In some ways, I felt like my own prisoner in this place, and _I _wasn't even locked up in a cell.

Disobeying the rule of many, I stepped past the yellow line. It was a marker for visitors (mainly lawyers or cops who had unfinished business or loose ends to tie up for trials and court cases for no simple civilians ever had a mind to make a visit to these people). Visitors and personnel alike were instructed to sit/stand behind or at the yellow line.

I, of course, had the fullest intentions on thanking my defender.

When I stepped past the line, Joker's eyes, which had been humorously narrowed in amusement of Victor's childish reaction, now turned curiously to me, a simple security guard who was bypassing the rules and regulations of all that I implemented. Up until now, that was.

Joker was not the same man as I remembered on television.

Morally, he was completely the same—the lack of, really. The scars were the same. The empty expression was the same. But alas, the makeup did him little justice. After all, he was completely different in appearance...the scars were more obvious, carved in his skin. It was hard to tell whether or not he carved them himself, or someone else had the misfortune of damaging an otherwise attractive face...I half-smiled. I did realize that this man...this person...this patient had been attractive at one point...then again, in a rigid, haggard, bad-ass, criminal kind of way, he was still attractive.

"This isn't a zoo, Officer." Joker stated, getting to his feet. He strolled towards the door.

That's right. _Strolled. _

I smiled in spite of his comment, obviously indicating my staring.

He looked at me curiously, eyes glancing me up and down. At first, I thought he was being the usual male, observing my hindquarters as I walked away or taking in the fact that I was a medium-breasted broad; the uniform certainly failed to hide anything of the shape of my curvaceous form. However, in his observation of me, I didn't recognize perversion. It was more of a realization that I was not Lyle, or Cecil O'Brien, or the common guard.

The realization I saw in his face was entertainment, for he cracked a grin.

"I've not seen _you_ around." Joker stated, pointing at me.

His voice had an odd way of sounding deep like a lion's purr, but a cunning devil's hiss of a serpent. It granted me chills down my back like I'd never known before.

It was one thing to see the person on television, and know he was up to no good. It was a whole new playing field when you were up close, seeing the real deal, watching him smile...smiling at me as if I was a long lost friend, rather than a guard. I figured he'd make a ridiculous sexist comment—my being a woman, after all, and in a place like this. But he proved me wrong.

"Did uh," Joker cracked another grin as if he couldn't help it, "Did Lyle take the day off?"

I heard the sarcasm in his voice when he mentioned my supervisor. _Lyle. _The word rolled off his tongue in cynical enjoyment...he obviously didn't care for the man. Then again, I couldn't blame him; one could observe how little I liked him, aside from defending my honor and gender for that matter.

"He went home, yes." I returned softly.

"For a security guard," Joker drawled, "You're awfully soft-spoken."

"I don't know what to say to you." I stated.

Joker giggled—it wasn't high-pitched; it was almost a simple laugh that he found me amusing. And in finding me in such a way, he commented, "Right to the point, huh? You're funny."

I found that statement a bit ironic. Joker was Joker...a clown, and supposedly 'funny'. Him finding humor in my response was both disturbing and yet, flattering.

_Kate, what are you doing? _

_ I don't know..._

_ Stop talking to him._

_ Why?_

"You can always thank me," Joker pointed out.

At this point, his hands wrapped around the bars; long fingers coiling around them as if they were part of his home, not a cell, part of his life, not a barrier. Part of _him_.

I mentally slapped myself when I felt a part of me long for that kind of extension. What if I was that bar—ohhh...

_Kate, stop it! What the hell?! _

"Thank you for what?" I asked quietly.

Joker chuckled, "Easily distracted, aren't you?" He shrugged, "Don't blame you though."

"Why don't you blame me?" I questioned.

He shrugged again, this time only one shoulder and said smoothly, "Locked in here long enough, Doll face, you'll forget who you are. It's hard to find something that makes you feel yourself again—something that makes you feel complete. With all these distrac-tions-jobs, relationships, work, and people like _him_" (Joker nodded his head at the cell across from him, towards Victor) "it's hard to keep your head above proverbial waters...hard to mind your _surroundings_."

I found myself staring at him, thinking over his words. He did have a point.

I stopped thinking for a second .

_Did he just call me 'Dollface'?_

_ Yes, he did._

_ Wow._

My heart started beating like a hammer, pounding against my chest. What was this feeling I had? It was anxiety. It was excitement. Did Joker enstill these feelings or did I come up with them all on my own? Did I intentionally feel a bit...aroused...by the way he called me 'Doll face'? Maybe it's the caffeine...maybe it's the job.

_It's getting to you, Kate. Get a hold of..._

"Aren't ya going to say it?" Joker questioned, smirking at me.

"Say what?"

"'Thank you'." Joker returned, his voice deepening into a low guttural purr.

I frowned: "I could have handled it on my own, you know."

"Typical cop—so ungrateful." Joker stated; his tone was apathetic, but the glint in his eyes said otherwise. "What's your name, Dollface? I might have to put you down on my wall of fame."

"Fame?" I repeated.

"Fame," he confirmed.

"What's your Wall of Fame?"

Joker indicated with a wave of his hand the wall behind him. Narrowing my eyes to take a closer look, I figured it was a bunch of names he'd placed on his hit list whenever he managed to escape from this dump; find all the people that wronged him in the past and kill them. Somehow, I didn't find that convincing. Joker was apathetic—too detached, too far above the lines of killing people for personal regards.

"I doubt it's a hit list," I observed lightly.

Joker looked at me pointedly, saying, "Looks like someone graduated from college."

"Hm."

Joker chuckled at my unhappy response. He simply stepped back, gesturing to his cell dramatically. In his orange uniform, he'd have looked little appealing to any woman, any cop, any redeemable morally-constructed person who, when seeing him, might have spat at him for even looking at them. But what I saw made my conscience scream in protest, and what made my body long for something more than just a rougher experience.

When he stepped back, I saw Joker as something more than just a symbol of what chaos could animate. He burned money, for the fuck of it. He blew up hospitals, armed ferries, and did all of this for simple doo-da amusement. And what's more, he was able to do it.

What was _more_, he was irredeemably attractive. The scars were jagged, but not unattractive. His eyes were bothersome to me—empty, but not completely lacking in expression. What made my skin tingle more was that he was toned from his muscular defined forearms to whatever other part of them that yet to be revealed to me. I figured at the very least—regarding his criminal activity—he required a lot of running, hand-to-hand combat, lifting...

_I bet **he **could make love to me on a stove of left over lasagna dinners..._

_ KATE! HALT YOUR THOUGHTS!_

"So what is your hall of fame?" I questioned, looking at him. "Why the names on the wall? Are you going to kill them?"

"Kill them?" repeated Joker mysteriously. He smirked: "Of course not. Something much worse. Much, much worse—you couldn't _wrap_ your mind around the plans I have for them." He stepped towards the cell door. "A little female rent-a-cop security guard like _you_ shouldn't be bothered by those thoughts. It'd only keep you up all hours of the night, pondering what should have been, could have been, and never will be."

_Okay...now I'm a little scared._

"Don't be nervous," Joker reassured, smiling plainly. "You don't have anything to worry about, Doll Face. After all—the only sin you're guilty of committing is not being polite." He chuckled: "You've not thanked me yet."

"What should I be thanking you for?" I asked quietly.

He passed over my question and asked, instead: "Have many friends, Doll Face?"

"It's Officer Richardson."

"I know your name," Joker returned, bored. He indicated my badge with his eyes: "But something tells me you'd rather be on first-name basis with me."

I stared at him. One could understand why I lost my reserve so quickly. Part of me wondered if he read my mind this entire time, or was I that of an open book? Oh god...were my nipples peaking out of my shirt?

I glanced down discreetly, wondering if that had been my dead giveaway. My ultimate sign that I was already pining for a man that I shouldn't even want to be around. God, I was only around him for not even thirty minutes and I was losing my mind...maybe I could lose more than that...

_Kate, Shut UP! _

"W-what?" I muttered.

Joker smiled.

His hands were on the cell bars again. The smile that curved his mouth was one of amusement and knowing. And I found it more appealing than I should. A dirty little secret of mine already exposed to a darker force, one that I wanted to penetrate my morally constructed...

_KATE SHUT THE FUCK UP! _

"First name basis," Joker repeated.

I watched his tongue dart over his lips and thoughtfully probe at his scars. Not even my mind could force my eyes to look at that tease in itself.

What killed me more was that I found the same hypnotic state while watching him on that tape, taken in the moment he appeared on GCN. '_Every day he doesn't, people will die. Starting tonight. I'm a man of my word..." _

"Tell me..." Joker purred. "_Officer _Richardson." He grinned when I stepped away from his door. "Do you have friends outside of work?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, it's nothing personal." Joker returned wholeheartedly, shaking his head as if I'd taken this question to heart, a stinger.

"I didn't take it personally." I commented.

"Then no harm done."

"No harm can be done."

"Oh plenty of harm can be done," Joker corrected, chuckling.

"You sound pretty sure of yourself." I uttered callously.

"Then, with that observation in mind, you should realize that you're an open book and I've been reading you like an at_las_." He purred the last bit, a lion's deep sultry ruse that made the hairs on my neck stand on end, yet simultaneously caused a slight rupture of my loins.

_You're sick, Kate._

_ Oh, so sick, _I countered thoughtfully.

"Lyle," Joker listed—definitely a daydream breaker, "Cecil, Scott Pritchard..." He smirked, "I doubt those are your true friends. You just don't seem the type to uh hang around with them more than is **needed**. Is that why you're up here, Officer, hm? To get away from them, and to get a glimpse of your past" (he glimpsed at Victor) "or to see a few celebrities before you retire to your listless apar**t**men**t**?"

I frowned at his observations, however wrong they were.

"How do _you_ know my 'type'?" I questioned coolly.

Joker raised his head so his eyes looked downward to me. Arrogance revealed itself to me in a small snort of laughter when he said smoothly, "I know 'em, when I see 'em, _Officer_."

"Know what?" I returned.

Joker sighed, "Squealers. Two-timers. Liars...past dwellers" (at the last, he smiled at Victor, who apparently responded with a middle finger because Joker giggled a bit) "and then, moralistic cops like you."

"What about cops like me?"

Joker smirked: "Hiding behind aloof denial, are we?" He chuckled when I frowned.

You're not that hard to read, Doll Face."

"Stop calling me that."

"Make me." Joker returned, smirking, still.

I stared at him—did he really think I was that stupid?

Apparently not, for he grinned broadly when I didn't even make a move towards him.

"You're wrong, by the way." I said smoothly, gaining back my sheer calm.

"Oh yeah?" Joker offered. "About?"

"Why I came up here." I said. "I didn't come up here to meet the pests of my past. How do you know about that anyway?"

Victor thought he'd join the conversation and responded, "I told him—and I loved every minute of the reminisce."

I glowered at Joker, not at him, but at the misfortune of hearing that man speak. Joker smirked at me, knowing my anger was flaring. I had yet to reveal my hot temper but it was simmering. The familiar tension started aching in my neck; the clenched fists as I pride myself on restraint, and the tightening of my chest as I listened to Victor repeat the past through his gob. Joker sighed deeply.

"Look, now you've gone and upset the girl." Joker stated, smiling at my reaction.

"She was looking hot and bothered, anyway." Victor said: "Thought I'd help."

Joker snorted derisively, "I didn't _realize _I had an assistant."

"This ain't no magic show, freak."

I frowned, and turned to look at Victor.

"You don't have to call people names, Zsass." I stated coldly.

Victor raised his eyebrows in surprise—after all, I was afraid of him. But fear has a funny way of leaving my face when I get angry, and right now, I was pissed.

"It ain't no name-calling," Victor breathed. He smirked at me: "He _is_ a freak."

"He hasn't called you any names." I stated.

"Yeah," Joker said from behind me, "I've not called _you_ any names."

"Stay out of this, Clown."

"As if you can do anything from over there," I laughed, pointing at him. "Silly little boy with nothing but a remedial cage and a flat tire."

Joker giggled, "I think she just insulted your boys, Vicky."

My anger dissipated upon hearing Joker's nickname for the mass-murdering serial killer before me. Vicky..._Vicky. _What replaced my anger was growing grin as I laughed at Victor.

"If I get out of here..." Victor threatened.

"That's right," I said quietly. I stepped towards his door and with all the malice I could muster, I breathed: "_**If**_."

Victor snarled at me like a stark-raving dog, but I could care very little. I turned my nose up at him and then began walking away, not before I stopped, turning on my heel and walked towards Joker's corner. He straightened upon seeing my brief return and I smiled beautifully at him.

"Thank you." I told him quietly.

Joker cracked a grin (which I found most attractive, indeed, despite my mental advisors) and said smoothly, "You're welcome, Officer."

"Katelynn." I uttered.

Joker grinned, "Katelynn." He licked his scars thoughtfully and said after a moment, "I like Ka_**t**_e better."

I heard the emphasis he placed on the 't' in my name. And for some reason, it made me smile.

"Fine." I returned.

I glanced at my watch.

Joker saw me do so, for he replied: "Late, late, late, late for an important date."

I glanced at him. And there he was, smirking at me again.

"Come back and see me again, Ka**t**e." Joker purred. "Gets **awfully** lonely in here. I do love lovely company."

I quickly walked away before he could see the heat rising in my cheeks. But I had a bad feeling (that felt good?) he already knew for there was a rather suspicious, dark chuckle emitting through the hall as I hurriedly went through the door, past the nurse's station and down to the breakroom for a luncheon with Cullson.

Any company would be great—so to be ridden my naughty thoughts and even worse, the excitement and pleasure that was rousing my body with imaginative scenarios of making Joker feel less lonely.


	5. Clockwork

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

Author's Note: I can't believe how many reviews this story is getting! I'm serious; there are several times I glance at my email and then 'BAM!' there are five more reviews after a single chapter. Not complaining though; I'm happy to see this; and it makes me want to write even _more_! So I hope you like this chapter, lovelies! XD

As for the people getting all high strung about my OC, Gary—I'll make this perfectly clear for you. I'm not personifying anyone with OCD **_or _**OCPD. Personally, I couldn't give a fuck. Don't take things personally, people; Gary's Gary, not the living embodiment of all people with any disorder. Get over it.

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**Chapter 5: Clockwork**

On the by-and-by when Officer Liam Prathart called in, I always had a luncheon with Cullson Dipperson. It had become almost a tradition, a scheduled, unwritten agenda that we never really had to write into our calendars; if our schedules coincided that day (or in this case, the night), I made it my business to grab a bite to eat as I walked out of the asylum, and get something for the housekeeper while I was out. Twelve o'clock was the ideal lunch hour—the nurses were making their rounds, and the patients—in general—were quiet (for save those who were insomniac or would speak unawares in their sleep).

I met Cullson downstairs and he was there in the lobby, waiting for me. He looked like a completely different person without his cart, that certain appendage that seemingly was attached to his waist the entire night. Gone from him, he looked younger, all the more wiser, but his back was more hunched than I remembered; he had a habit of leaning over the wheeled cart, walking with it as if it was a part of him. I smiled, seeing Cullson; he was standing in the lobby, looking at the framed photography on the walls—a bit of a 'thank you' present from the benefactor, Dr. Arkham.

The benefactor, at the time, had been Jeremiah Arkham's father. When it was passed down to his son, the photography remained, keeping in light with the some of the darker notions the hospital upheld in its reputation. Personally, the pictures of flowers, sunshine, daises, and rudimentary abstraction was just another dark joke that even in the darkest of atmosphere, humor can be found...even if it did make you feel like you were staring at pictures that _I_ could have taken—and I was no professional photographer.

Catching Cullson staring at one that was an odd angle of a butterfly (facing as though the butterfly sat on the camera), I gave him a quick overview look of curiosity; sure, I expected him to be in the lobby so we could regroup about what we wanted for dinner, but I didn't expect him to be without his cart, and looking so...happy.

Why was Cullson grinning at me that way?

"I've not seen you that happy since your wife left you," I said smoothly, putting my arms through a light jacket and patting my pants to make sure I had my gun holstered, flashlight, and keys in my pocket. (Could never be too careful; some of these patients were really good pickpockets!)

Cullson glanced in my direction, having been distracted by the odd frame, but smiled at me.

"Since that time, I've been happy all the time." Cullson said, cracking a grin.

The grin alone made him look ten years younger; at the appearance he maintained currently, I might have mistaken him to be in his late twenties, not nearing his fifties. Seeing so, I patted his shoulder playfully.

"Smile more often, Cullson; might get a woman my age if you did."

"Nah," Cullson said, waving me away. "I'm happy being where I am. Don't need a woman in my life again; I have enough trouble as it is with you."

"Ow, that stings," I teased. I checked my pockets again, then looked up at Cullson, who smiled back at me as if I was an old friend; truly, the past between us had proved optimally that he was. After all, he'd saved my life and I was grateful to him for it.

"What's for grub?" asked Cullson, clapping his hands together. "I thought I'd take a turn this time."

"Leave the asylum?" I playfully mocked. "Now why on _earth_ would you wanna leave this place?" Sarcastically, I gestured to the building as if it was Heaven reincarnate.

Cullson cracked another grin and said, "You're funny, Katelynn."

"You're not the first person to tell me that today," I replied, smiling at him.

Cullson gazed at me curiously but said nothing in return.

We discussed what was on the menu for dinner—all the fancy restaurants were closed by midnight except for the McBurger joint down the street which was a replica of a McDonalds but Gotham had decidedly tried to be unique. Guess what possible items you could get from the Mc_Burger_ joint, right? Despite the lack of originality, the place wasn't too bad when it came to beef burgers and fattening salad dressing. So Cullson opted to go for the lunch and I gave him my money for my order; he waved my hand away, and I gazed at him curiously.

"Are you sure?" I offered, holding out a few dollar bills.

"No lady pays for her dinner," Cullson said. "Put that away."

I shrugged and complied, stuffing my folded bills inside my pocket. Cullson was an old-fashioned family man; the only reason his wife left him was because he didn't share her views on the coming and goings of Batman. Trust me: it was a story worth hearing but for the sake of time and pressure of revealing a good punchline, I'd let it down that his wife hated Batman, while Cullson loved the vigilante. In due respect, they viewed this as important as politics and religion so they mutually resigned—Cullson had one of the easiest divorces in the world, and he was still friends with his ex-wife. How many people could get off that lucky?

"Two McBurgers and a large fry," Cullson recited my order. "Want a drink with that?"

"I'm more hungry than thirsty, Cullson."

"Do you want a drink with it though? You might want it later."

"Unless it has alcohol, no."

Cullson laughed, knowing I was joking.

I wasn't a drinker.

"I'm gonna go," Cullson said, thumbing his own dollar bills, counting out the change. "Before it gets crazy."

"That's a loose term, being where we are." I told him, indicating our workplace.

Cullson chuckled again and said, "You are too much, Katelynn. Too much." He chortled as he walked out of the building and went to his car, firing up that old truck; I watched him turn the engine over a few times before it finally kicked to its optimal level, bucking a few paces before finally revving and leaving the parking lot. I shook my head; if ever tax refunds approached, I was definitely saving up to give him a vehicle that he didn't have to hassle with more than twenty minutes just to go to a joint that was five minutes away.

I glanced at my watch: 12:30.

Time for rounds.

I sighed: Here. We. Go.

(())

Making the first rounds of the hospital was an essential part of the surprise. A person could walk into the hospital in the early part of the shift (about six o'clock or six-thirty, depending on a person's tardiness) and be welcomed with little to no blood shed. The reports could be top notch, for save a few fights among inmates and maybe even a murder, but for the most part, it was legitimately calm.

The first rounds were difficult.

It involved glancing in all the cells, opening cell doors, making sure none of the patients had been hassling their roommates. It was frisking under the beds to be sure no one made a shrapnel out of a sharpened toothbrush, and spoons, forks, and knives (only plastic allowed) hadn't been hidden in the comforters to later traumatize a nurse. This process itself was tedious with two male officers...let alone myself.

I'd done it many times on Level 1—mostly, the orderlies (preferably male) assisted with the procedure in hoping that no female cop would be hassled in doing her job. The majority of patients on Level 1 were placid to the routine, used to people rustling through their belongings for sharp, pointy objects. Half of them didn't know who I was or why I was there, but accepted me graciously into their home with little disregard for my purposes.

Some would fight you until the end of time—in that case, most of the orderlies ran and sedated while I finished my job with a few bruises on my arm or scratches on my neck where some female patients attempted to strangle. I sometimes wondered if these shakedowns were meant for the safety of patients or the physical harm to Arkham's own.

I'd finished with the patient rooms on Level 1, quickly and quietly. I didn't have many problems with them, especially when Anthony Daves worked the floor.

Anthony Daves was a nurse on the floor who took his job seriously, but laughed a bit. He was a big man, standing at 6'6'' and being so tall, not a lot of the patients (man or woman) messed with him. Despite his curious tall and wide stature, Anthony was a big giant teddy bear; his favorite movie was 'The Notebook', and he liked the color pink. Each day, he'd leave work and give his beautiful young wife a bouquet of flowers for no damn reason at all. Such a lovable lug.

"Going to Level 2?" asked Anthony, as I finished my round.

I gave my information of a stolen cup to Catherine. Dietary would be happy to know that one of their cups had been lodged in the toilet of a man who talked to the walls as if they'd talk back. Catherine made a quick note of this, holding the cup in a plastic bag, then looked up at me when Anthony asked his question.

"About to," I said smoothly.

"Need a hand?" asked Anthony, holding his hands out to me. "I'm open for the next half-hour before I take my lunch."

"Nah, I should be fine; the orderlies above will assist." I said nonchalantly. I smiled at Anthony: "But thanks. How's the wife?"

"Beautiful," answered Anthony dreamily.

The guy had been married to his wife for almost ten years and he spoke of her as if he was still a smitten newlywed. They still held hands together when they came in on his day off, and I'd caught them a few times making out in a broom closet like a couple of teenagers hiding from the teachers during class hours. I smiled when Anthony fell into his reminisce of his pretty wife, then I turned to Catherine, who was smirking at me.

"Hard, isn't it?" Catherine asked.

"What is?"

"To see a guy like that so head over heels for a woman he's been with for nearly ten years and..."

My smile faltered as I said, "And?"

"Well, you and Gary..."

I hazarded a sigh to release from my mouth; evidently, Catherine heard my exasperation of the topic. It's not that I didn't like talking about my husband to a lesbian woman who constantly wanted to talk about him, it's just...

Well, It was very much like that.

"How come I don't hear _you_ talk about him like that?" Catherine asked.

"Because I try not to talk about him _at all_."

"But you love him?"

"Yes," I muttered. "I do. But work is work, home is home. And right now, work is first."

"All work and no play makes Kate..."

"Anthony, you finish that sentence and I'll hit you with my flash light," I told him smoothly before he could finish the saying.

Anthony ducked quickly when I threatened him with my flash light, surprising me to see that he was as agile as a nimble bug. He laughed when I attempted to chase him but he outran me around the nurse's station; I leaned against the desk, looking at Catherine, who found utter amusement in my playful manner.

"I hear Anthony talk about her all the time—you never say anything." Catherine pointed out. "It's like you don't want us to know anything about your personal life; you know _mine_."

"I do," I relented. "Sometimes more than I would like to know."  
"So make it even," Catherine offered.

She typed a few notes in her computer about the few patients before she turned to me completely in her swivel chair, hands holding her knees as she leaned forward with an interest.

"Tell me something about your husband that I don't know."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I've made him a mystery by my own design?" tiredly, I responded. These questions exhausted me physically.

"Attempting to hide a few dirty secrets?" Catherine giggled.

"That's the sad part," I muttered. "There _are _no dirty secrets with Gary. No false childhood memories, no fights of any kind in his school yard days. No jail time, no physical confrontations. No bar memories—you couldn't blackmail that man."

Anthony quirked his eyebrows at me curiously, saying, "You say it like his flawless record is a _bad_ thing."

I smiled weakly: "It's not a _bad _thing. It's a good thing."

"What's his favorite color?" asked Catherine.

"Who cares about his favorite color?"

"I do—I know everything there is to know about Anthony's wife, but I know very little of yours."

"So?" I returned.

God, I could feel the tension in my neck again. What about this topic made my blood boil? Was it the constant questions Catherine interrogated on my love life? Was it Anthony's insistence that I blamed a boring life on a boring husband whose record was cleaner than his own countertops? I don't know why I was getting angry, but it was only a matter of time before...

"Tell us about him," Catherine insisted.

"_I don't want to talk about _**_him_**!" I shouted furiously.

You can imagine that Catherine and Anthony were taken aback by my sudden display of rage. Anthony jumped back in alarm while Catherine blinked at me, shocked.

"Every time I come home," I stated heatedly, "I listen to his stories he tells over, and over, and over again. It's the same trials, the same dingy little clients. When I come home, I hear how his day has gone, how he's won a case, how he's lost a case, how everything in his life consistently goes 'according to plan'." I made the necessary vicious quotations with my hands, and I could hardly hide the cynicism.

"I come to work to get away from the monotony—the screaming patients, the occasional knife fight keeps me from dying from boredom at home. Everything is predictable with Gary, so I don't want to talk about him when I come to the only place that gives me a little excitement—even if it might kill me," I told Anthony and Catherine (who continued to stare at me with the same amount of alarm) "I hear _you_ talk about Gary. Wanna know about him? Here!" I thrusted my phone out of my pockets and slammed the damn cellular device on the counter. "He's going to call in exactly two minutes—at one o'clock. You can bet your life on it."

Just as I said it, in two minutes, the phone rang.

I glared at Catherine and Anthony, shaking my head and I answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Hi, Katelynn," Gary said lightly. "How are you?"

"Peachy," I answered; my tone could have been nicer but currently, I didn't feel like being nice.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fantastic," I responded.

"Are you taking your lunch?"

"No; I'm actually late."

"Didn't take the time to..."

"Don't talk to me about time," I returned coldly. "I'll take my lunch when I please. I'm not a schedule book."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Stop asking if I'm okay." I responded. "I said I'm fine."

"But you sound a little annoyed."

I glared at my phone.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

"I'm not annoyed," I reassured. In saying so, I calmed my voice. "Look, I've got my other rounds to complete. So..."

"Hold on—we have to wait until exactly..."

"1:05, I know." I muttered, saying it as he did.

"Wait for it..."

We sat on the phone for exactly four minutes and ten seconds and when the clock said 1:05, he said his good bye really quick and I hung up after he did. I placed my phone in my pocket and looked at Anthony and Catherine, who continued to stare at me as if I was some animal.

"This isn't a zoo, you know." I hissed, frowning at them.

I almost stopped at my comment, remembering that it was the exact same thing Joker had said when I had been staring at _him_. It made a set of goosebumps rush over my body and I felt better but simultaneously uncertain as to what was happening to me.

I looked at Catherine, indicating my phone: "I know Gary like the back of my hand. I know when he will call, what he will say, what he will do hour-by-the-hour. There's no guessing to him, Catherine." I looked at them both: "I don't know about you but that's nothing to talk about.."

I nodded at them both, a kind of sarcastic bow of exiting that I enhanced as I walked away.

They wanted to know about Gary—I knew all there was to know about the man. Sometimes, I wish he'd surprise me; at this point, I'd be happy to come home and find a dead woman in the basement. At least then it'd be something interesting to have happened in my five years of being with him.

Boredom could do some funny things to people.

Who knew I'd be betting my life on _that _as well.


	6. He Irks Me

**I've Been Wrong Before**

Author's Note: **Emma, ****Bxfriday, RealHuntress18, Robert12774, JoJo1812, the-quiet-girl, xTheDarkShadowsx**, and **Lady of Dov**: thank you for your beautiful reviews. You all are wonderful XD

/

Chapter 6: He Irks Me

Cullson held a McBurger bag in front of me when I jiggled my keys in the front door of Arkham Asylum, allowing him inside. The intercom above had been reasonably quiet, an uncomfortable silence on my behalf being that I worked day shift and that speaker seemingly had someone on it all hours of the day. In the night, there was nothing; the nurses, above and below, communicated via the phones, so the need for the intercom was minimal. This was by the efforts to keep the patients quiet and asleep. Whether or not it helped was beyond me.

"How was the ride?" I asked, taking my bag happily. He held in his hand another bag, but it was for himself. He shrugged in response.

"It's busier than usual," Cullson answered. "The traffic."

We walked down the halls leading to the Security's break room. He opened doors for me, smiling when I protested at first, but he consistently found the persistence to be old-fashioned. I was used to the old-fashioned male, opening my door, scooting out my chair; Gary was a good man, and treated me nicely. But there were days I wished I could feel just as able to do my own laborious acts than to have them done for me. I should be so grateful to be around people like them...but you know what they: "Grass is greener on the other side...or dead."

"Anything happen while I was gone?" Cullson asked after some silence had fallen between us.

"Nope." I answered.

I sat in the break room, on the couch while he sat beside me. The television remained off; he preferred a quiet meal, and he remained silent as I did. This wasn't uncommon; the reason I liked his company was _because_ he didn't have much to say. Obviously he spoke more to me than anyone else, but then again, that was because he and I had bonded closer over the last two years...ever since that incident with Zsass.

You see, when I had my throat half-slit and was lying in a pool of my own blood, anticipating my gory death ode to my external hemorraging, Cullson had begun an evacuation for the Arkham staff, finding men and women alike who had been caught in the line of fire as the Arkham patients roamed and fled madly for escape or justly vengeance. When he came down the hallway of Maximum Security, I'd been the only one there, lost to my world of blackness, getting colder with every pint of blood that seeped out of my carotid artery.

I had blacked out just the moment I saw Cullson. I don't remember saying anything, but from what Cullson had explained, I'd uttered the name "Gary" and then I passed out. The next thing I remembered was waking up in a hospital bed of Gotham General with enough morphine in my system to make an unhappy Giant feel relaxed—and stitches along my throat.

Gary was by my side, and then after he commented on the disarray of my flowers that Lyle Bolton (back when he was one of us, and not head of assholes) and Scott Pritchard had given me, I recognized where I was, and what had happened. Gary was assembling the flowers so they ranged from big to small, and even by their genus. Cullson had come in later, explained what happened with Arkham and why it had suddenly unlocked all the cells...Inside job of SWAT team and even some of the nurses and doctors had been recruited by the League of Shadows...

The gist was that we had been infiltrated. Most of the Arkham Patients in Maximum Security had been captured, brought back in—except, of course, former Dr. Johnathan Crane. He was still at large. I had little to say to a man who was so obsessed with the vanity of fear, but I guessed when a man like him had been bullied for _years_, he'd go straight to fear as a marketing distribution to get back at all the people who ever made him miserable in the first place.

Karma has a funny way of biting people's asses. Including mine.

For some reason, it had decided that I deserved a nice throat cutting from Victor Zsass, but Cullson, the quiet housekeeper who said nothing to anyone, saved my life that day. For that, I owed him a debt, but—like my money, cheeseburger, and essentially anything I generously offered—he declined that I put the thought away.

But I remembered it each time I saw him.

And when I saw Victor Zsass.

"Ever think about leaving this place?" I asked Cullson when lunch had been consumed. I wearily glanced at the clock: 1:30—almost time for rounds up on Level 2. I pushed work out of my mind; I only ever worried about it until he came that time of the night. After all, I'd have to worry about it eventually, why do so at this point in time?

"Nah," Cullson said, rubbing his belly with satisfaction. "That's a good burger. I don't think that place gets enough credit for making some good beef." He turned to me: "I don't think I'll leave this place. It's become home to me. You know..."

I did know.

Aside from his befriended ex-wife, Cullson had no one at home. He lived in a dingy apartment, a catalyst for roaches and mice. Downtown Gotham was a different place than the upper West or even the East. He lived near the Narrows, about five minutes from where we sat now. Every now and again, he'd have a law breaker enter his home, only for them to leave disappointed. Not even the muggers wanted anything to do with Cullson's home; it only held a bed and a small refrigerator, which was empty. Cullson lived a lonely life, but he never complained about it; he was such a loner with a love for solitude.

I hated to think so but I believed myself to be his only friend in the world. He was getting on his years, forty-five was young but he sometimes looked seventy. He had arthritis in both hands, and he had to sit a lot of times for his back to stop hurting. He took the elevator alone because of his knees, but if he were to escort me upstairs, he'd take the flight with me, despite his knee pain. According to him, his pain was lower priority when it meant escorting a lady to her destination.

An old-fashioned, black little gentleman to the very end, I believed him to be.

"What about you?" asked Cullson as he scratched the back of his neck. "You ever plan on leaving?"

"I think about it," I answered. "But odds are, I won't."

"Nah, you won't leave," agreed Cullson. "You can't. You come here for more than just the wages—you have to; you all don't get paid as much as I think you should. Dealing with what you deal with—the crazies, and the staff with it."

"The patients don't piss me off," I replied. I took a drink of my Diet Coke, and stated, "It's the staff I don't care for. Except you...and maybe Scott."

"Don't forget Arkham—that guy ain't too bad. For being a young kid."

Jeremiah Arkham, he meant. The new administrator. Arkham had a lot of bad things said about him but they weren't true. Viewed originally as being stuck-up, snobbish, and only spoiled because of his family heritage (at one point they were a rich bunch), Arkham had the reputation of being a spoiled brat, but I met the man myself. He was considerate of people, and fairly decent. Although he possessed the usual arrogant trait for being the top dog of this asylum, he was otherwise pleasant; when I had been injured, for example, he recommended to me an office job.

He never intended to get rid of me because of the worker's compensation to which I was entitled to use considering I'd been injured at work. He offered for the hospital to pay for my hospital bills, and offered me more relaxed jobs. Despite his offers, I declined politely, retaining my wish to be Security Guard.

Jeremiah Arkham gave it to me, knowing I wouldn't have anything more or less.

I was bored at home; I didn't need to be bored at a place like Arkham Asylum. At least being a guard, I could be involved in some knife play, or maybe someone insult my intelligence _because _I was a security guard, only to be amazed and shocked that I was actually smart enough to be my own lawyer. People mistook 'occupation' as a reputable level of intelligence. Had I the goal to be a doctor, I could have excelled without ever even trying.

"Arkham's a good guy," I agreed with Cullson's earlier statement after I'd thought it over. "A bit conceited, but I'll take him over Lyle any day of the week."

"Lyle ain't bad," Cullson protested. "A little dishonorable, but he's an okay guy."

"He irks me." I returned quietly.

Cullson sent me a look of question. The inquisitive reaction only opened the door for me to explain _why_ I didn't like Lyle. Aside from his regal manner and constant reminder of being Head of Security, I had other reasons for disliking him so much. Cullson smiled at my response.

"Don't like Lyle, huh?" Cullson asked, sipping from his coffee. "He's an alright guy—does what he's told...most of the patients don't cross him. The nights he works, they hardly say a word."

"That doesn't make you wonder?" I offered.

"They respect him."

"No one respects Lyle. Not even Lyle." I remarked.

Cullson turned his entire body in his seat, hand on the back of the couch as he looked at me. The thinness of his lips only expressed his disappointment in my statement, but the dark brown eyes probed for an elaboration for my claim. He needn't say anything for his silent question to become known, so I answered him as if he'd asked anyway.

"He doesn't affect the people up there," I told him, indicating Level 2. "Not Victor, at least. And I doubt he affects the Joker. But I've seen how Calypso reacts..."

"Deanna Jenkins," stated Cullson.

"She likes to be called Calypso."

"But that's not her name."

"So?" I returned smoothly.

Cullson smiled at me and said, "Anything to keep the balance, huh?" He shook his head: "What about her?"

"Calypso and Carter—they're both afraid of Lyle."

"How do you know that?" Cullson asked. "You've not been up at Level 2 since that day."

I frowned: "People talk, Cullson. And Lyle does too. Did you know he had gone up to Maximum Level and he was able to look inside Medusa's cell without her even protesting? She said nothing—not a word, according to him."

Cullson furrowed his eyebrows: "Madam Gregory didn't protest?"

I nodded.

Medusa was another patient on Level 2. Her real name was "Madam Gregory", but even that could have been fake. She named herself Medusa due to her bright blue eyes that seemingly froze a person when they first looked at her. Her hair was matted in waist-long black dreds, and she was oftentimes catty to men, but around women, she was fairly decent. Madam Gregory had been her first alias but I reckoned that was a play on 'Gregorian', mythological creature that was named Medusa. I expected her to eventually have her head cut off, but that has yet to happen.

The fact was this: Medusa didn't like people in general, particularly men. So for her to be completely complacent with a man like Lyle searching her cell, searching through her belongings, was unbelievable. In fact, it was suspicious...hence my irksome feelings.

"He's doing something to them." I uttered quietly, pointing upstairs.

"All the patients?"

"Not Level 1—some of them are afraid of Anthony, and you know he's never hurt anyone."

"So you think Lyle's been hurting people?"

"People, as in Patients on Level 2?" I asked quietly. With a disheartened voice, I revealed my opinion: "You don't simply walk into Medusa or Calypso's home and expect them to be fine with people invading their personal space. You don't expect them to be fine with it, particularly by rude asses like Cecil O'Brien or Lyle. They're afraid of him."

"Have any proof that Lyle's been hurting them?" Cullson questioned seriously. "Those are _very_ serious accusations, Katelynn."

"I've not complained." I told him pointedly. "I've kept this quiet; you're the only one who knows of this. Personally, I don't like it."

"Some of these people are frequent offenders, Katelynn," Cullson reasoned.

"So?" I replied. "Ever thought they turned out this way _because _of people like Lyle? And what are they to think that we're not in league with him? Everyone wants to be feared or respected, Cullson, and if they don't get one, they'll sure as hell get the other. For all I know, it's the fucking reason why Victor went after me, thinking I was in league with some of Lyle's stupid games."

Cullson widened his eyes with the small realization that I could be right. He bit the inside of his cheek and said quietly, "Don't say anything to anyone unless you know for sure, Katelynn. These people in Arkham don't like being accused of anything—specially Lyle. And they might fire you because..."

"I know," I returned. "That's why you're the only one who knows."

Cullson sighed, leaning forward to take another large gulp of his coffee. Too bad it wasn't liquor.

"You know what's funny?" I offered positively.

Hearing my optimistic tune, Cullson slowly looked at me, preparing himself for a bit of my dark humor that I acquired over the years (hey, a girl's gotta laugh at _something_).

"What?"

"I'm waiting for the day when Lyle, Cecil, or anyone else tries to scare the Joker." I uttered. "They might actually get what's coming to them."

"You think they'll try that on the Joker?"

"There's nothing to say that they haven't already." I replied quietly.

"Be careful around him, Kate."

I glanced at Cullson curiously, hearing the serious tone.

"Don't mess with the Joker—he gets to people," Cullson reassured. "He's one manipulative fucker, brilliant genius, and what's more, he knows he is. There's nothing more dangerous than a man whose self-aware of his own strengths and insanity."

I considered this as Cullson got to his feet; he winced as he held his lower back, pausing before taking a step forward. Concerned, I stood and held his shoulder.

"Just be careful around him, Kate—Joker's one hell of a brute but he can be bit of a smooth guy when he wants to be," Cullson warned. He shook his head: "I should know—the guy makes me feel as if we had been old friends before..."

"How's that?"

Cullson smiled weakly, saying, "He says he appreciates my hard work, being a housekeeper. Says that my name will go up on his Wall of Fame." He raised his hand to the air, saying, "Whatever _that_ is."

I stared at him, but couldn't voice my shock as to why Cullson would be on Joker's wall of Fame..._I have something much worse in store for them; something much, much worse. _Joker's words scared me a little more; what would he want with a good man like Cullson?

I dared not to think as to why it would matter. Joker was locked away in his cell. But then again, Arkham had more breakouts than I could dare to imagine. With that in mind, I coaxed myself to be a little more aware of the guy, telling myself that I would be careful and take more caution.

But as I've said ten times, hundreds, maybe a thousand times-

I've been wrong before.


	7. Cell Block Check

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

/

**Chapter Seven: Cell Block Check**

/

I walked up the flight of stairs with a phone in my hand. One could wonder why I tried to multitask. I was never the type that was able to talk on a phone, drive a car, chew gum, and drink a beverage all at the same time; so why I thought walking up the thirty steps with a phone in my hand, talking to Gary (it was 2:00), would have been such a bright idea.

"I'll be home at six, like always." I stated, looking up at the staircase; I counted how many were left but stopped the moment my toe snagged a metal ledge and I tripped up five steps as a result; I caught myself before I fell on my face and wondered how on earth I had ever managed this far as a cop. "Why are you still up anyway?" I asked Gary, surprised as I looked at the time.

He was normally in bed by now, or even earlier. This wasn't part of his routine and the fact that it was disrupted made me worry for him. I always complained about him worrying—and here I was, concerned for his REM sleep because he is up, talking to me when he—if past explained present and future pretenses—should have been scheduled for a deep sleeping.

On the other line, Gary was either reading the newspaper (definitely not part of his routine) at this hour, or crumpling papers of some sort. Knowing he would make no mess at this time of the night, he was probably reading the newspaper for the fifth time—he read it from page, to page and never scanned it. He read the _entire_ thing, even the sports section, which he never found interest in but I suppose him being himself, it was irrelevant what interested him just as long he could say he'd read the entire newspaper.

"I find it hard to sleep without you beside me, Katelynn," Gary answered nonchalantly.

I smiled endearingly: "Aw, that's sweet, honey."

"It's not sweet; it's a fact based on predetermined principals. I have become accustomed to you lying next to me in our usual ordeal and to have that interrupted has me up all hours of the night—hence the ungodly disruption."

I rolled my eyes; _could have just left it at sweet. _

"Then take sleeping pills—you know I can't leave." I stated lightly. I made a quiet grunt.

"What happened, Katelynn? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine—I just tripped again. Can I call you back once I get up these stairs? You know I can't do this and walk like a normal human being at the same time."

"No. I can't simply 'hang up'. We started a call and it must end properly. To start a conversation, you have end it with the same notion; if you hung up, I'd have to start a whole new conversation. And a conversation must be at least five minutes or more—do you have enough subject matter to include another five minutes, because I certainly don't."

I rolled my eyes again, finishing the staircase.

"It doesn't matter," I said with resolve. "I'm up the stairs anyway."

"See, now what good could have come from it if we ended the conversation two minutes ago?"

I sighed again, saying, "Nothing, I suppose."

"Exactly." Gary returned.

Walking down the hall to the nurse's station, I saw the two nurses, the two male orderlies. Only four people for the entire Maximum Security—granted, it was night shift, but a lot of crap could happen to require more than these people.

"I have my second rounds to finish, Gary." I reminded him.

"Right, right...Look, Katelynn..."

I stopped, glancing at my phone. Gary's tone of voice switched from exhausted to one of concern. What was wrong _now_?

"What, Gary?"

"Will you be off work at six o'clock or will this be one of your inconvenient trifles where you say you'll get off at six but you won't come until six-thirty?" asked Gary nonchalantly.

His voice lacked any concern for my own exhaustion. The waiting was a trifle, forget the fact that the hours just lengthened and stretched forever. I frowned at the cellular device in my phone, wondering why Gary found _my_ habits inconvenient but I had to get used to _his_ as if they had been mine all along.

"I'll be off whenever the next shift comes in."

"So you _won't_ be off at six." He assumed callously.

"I don't know for sure."

"How come you don't know? It's on your schedule, isn't it? When it says the time you will be clocked out, that's when you should be clocked out? It's only logical to..."

"I would love to continue talking about my hours, but I've got a job to do." I interrupted him carelessly.

There was a slow pause on the other line before Gary finished slowly as if he hadn't been interrupted, "...Logical to assume that you will be off when your schedule states you will be clocked out. I expect you home, Katelynn. No earlier, no later. Time is of the essence."

"Time is an illusion," I snapped.

"Time keeps this world in check, Katelynn, and how _dare _you say it's non-existent," Gary returned; he sounded disarmed, as if I'd insulted him with a word that my mother would be shocked to hear. But I knew what 'time' meant to Gary, so the very statement was cruel, even for me.

"I've got a job to do," I returned apathetically. "You want to talk to me about time, then I'll come home and we can discuss it at full length. Right now, you're using up my precious time. I'm hanging up."

"We'll talk about this later, alright." Gary promised unhappily.

"Like everything else?" I rounded.

There was another pause and dispassionately, Gary sniffed, "I'm not going to argue with you over the phone."

"You won't argue with me about anything—you don't argue with me at all." I hissed.

"You're angry—I wont speak to you when you are angry."

"I'm angry because you _won't_ talk to me about why I'm angry. It's the same—"

"I refuse to speak to you while you're in this state. How about you calm down..."

"_I don't want to calm down, Gary!_" I snapped furiously: "I _want_ to be angry."

"You can't get anything solved in anger, Katelynn. You should know better than that. Now, when you've calmed down, we can talk about this later. Now, calm down."

I hung up.

Then the phone rang again. So naturally, I answered.

"Don't interrupt me again, Katelynn. That was very rude."

"Don't call me again," I snapped. "You're pissing me off."

"There's no need for that kind of language," Gary condescended. "And your anger is out of control. Count to ten..."

"I don't want to count to ten," I snarled. "Let me be angry, Gary, let me rage. God knows, you deserve it."

"I don't want your rage, Katelynn."

"I'm sorry, but that's all you're getting right now."

"I don't like your rage."

"Well, sorry about your luck, buddy." I stated coldly.

"How about we talk later?"

"There was a _reason_ why I hung up." I reminded.

There was silence.

I felt eyes on me—people were so nosy to hear a couple's quarrel. I glared at the nurses who stared at me and their eyes switched quickly to something else that would mindfully draw their attention but I noticed a few ears were perked to the delusion that I had a happy marriage.

_The delusion is fading._

Apparently, the voices in my head felt to agree without my own permission.

"Katelynn, we'll discuss this later, I promise."

"Fine. Whatever. I'm hanging up."

"Katelynn."

"What."

"I love you."

"Ditto." I answered. I waited for him to hang up and when he did, I glanced at my phone. _Exactly _ten minutes.

_Motherfucker._

I blinked at my own sudden irritation. I knew why I felt a bit irate—why couldn't ever just hang up in nine minutes and fifty two seconds. Or maybe 9:20? _Did it really have to be a round number?! _

I placed my phone in my pocket, and stepped to the nurse's station. Two nurses, one beautiful more than the second, smiled at me politely, acknowledging my presence. Their names weren't important to me; they rarely did anything for me to remember their names—good or bad. They seemingly just sat there all night on their asses, doing nothing but playing on their phones or immersing themselves in blatant gossip of which I cared little to hear nor involve myself.

The orderlies—handsome men—smiled at me too but I didn't ask for their help.

When I told Anthony Daves that I'd get help with searching these patients' rooms, I was, of course, lying my ass off for two different reasons. The first was because Anthony didn't need to be up here with me in Level 2 when there were two competent orderlies at my beck and call. Second...I liked to have my one-on-one with the patients on Level 2 for my conversations were private and important to me.

Some of these patients could be more open with me than they were with their own DA or doctor. I learned and understood them—more than I should have, and felt comfortable with them, except for Victor. He was the only one I wished for a plus one to be with me when I searched his cell. As for the Joker—well, he wasn't up here the last time I was there...so searching his cell would definitely be a hoot-and-a-half.

"I'm going to do my rounds," I informed the nurse's station.

"Need help?" offered James Kyle.

James Kyle was one of the orderlies. I had mixed feelings towards the man. He was a man with receding red hair, a small paper thin mustache, and curious green eyes; he wasn't burly, but he was toned, and his smile was cheeky, but well-deserving of consideration. While he was formidably a great worker—never was rude to patients or co-workers, always on time, and a good cook—I doubted James for a reasonable friend. He had a funny way of making reasonable stories become tall tales. Whether any of his stories were inertly true or just a little (_more like a lot) _exaggerated was never clear to me. I doubted his words, but wanted to believe he'd gone skiing or rock climbing, despite his more stay-at-home-and-watch-tv nature.

"Only with Victor." I told James. "I can't trust him."

"I don't blame you—you above all people." James said, nodding to the scar on my throat.

I frowned—sometimes the smallest mention of my incident would irritate me. I didn't like other people knowing about my naivety of the past, and while I had learned from my mistake, I pondered the necessity of constantly bringing it to my face. I was ashamed of my mistake...to say the very least.

"Don't need assistance with the Joker?" James questioned. "He's not exactly trustworthy."

"If you hear me screaming, then you'll know to come and help." I insisted. "I'm not a stranger to the job, James. Okay?"

"Whatever you say." James said, shrugging. He still looked at me cautiously.

"I'll be back." I told them all; only James acknowledged my promise with a semi-nod of acceptance.

To hell with the other three then, right?

Turning on my heel, I pulled a pair of keys out of my black pant pockets and held a flashlight in my left hand as I prepared to open the door to Maximum Security. Doing so, the door creaked upon opening, and I frowned at the creepy sound, closing it behind me. The first cell I came upon was Calypso's.

Just as I expected, she was awake.

Dark-skinned with eyes of stunning emerald green, Calypso gazed at me from her bed with a look of cool enticement. She was interested in my presence at this odd hour but when I held up the flashlight in steady indication of the usual procedure, Calypso's expression dulled to acceptance.

"Come in." Calypso gave me permission.

I took my keys into the door itself, and opened it, closing it behind me so no thought of escape would cross Calypso's mind.

"How are we doing, Calypso?"

Hearing her preferred name, the woman grinned at me broadly. Her teeth were rotten from the back to front, but somehow, she still looked beautiful with the smile reaching her eyes and her body straightening so she sat up and watched me check her things. The patients were allowed a dresser and a bed. There wasn't much to hide, if one could find a place to hide anything.

"Fair," Calypso answered. Her accent made the word sound like "Feh" with the 'R' pronounced extremely light so as to having sound as if it didn't go pronounced at all.

"Got that promotion yet?" asked Calypso. Like in the word 'Fair', she hardly pronounced the 'R' in 'Promotion' so it sounded like '_Po_motion." I smiled at the accent, wondering where she had adopted that kind of tone but it mattered little to me.

"No," I answered conversationally.

I glanced inside the drawers, running my flashlight through the orange clothes. Seeing nothing, I looked at her solemnly.

"I'm disappointed," I told her. "I thought I'd find a sharp tooth brush."

"Not today," Calypso answered, and she found humor in my tease.

I closed the dresser drawers, and then bent on one knee, sliding my hand underneath briefly, but feeling nothing, I straightened. I walked over to her, smiling politely.

"Do you mind?" I asked gently.

"Of cos' not." Calypso lifted her feet into an Indian's sitting position, and gestured to me. "Have at it."

I glanced under the bed, shining my light down there but seeing nothing more than a few dust bunnies, I straightened.

"Good to see you again, Officer." Calypso said as I walked out of the door. "Been a sausage fest without you. You should come moh often."

I smiled politely, nodding to her, then closed and locked the door on my way out.

(())

The next cell was Kart Carter's. I held out my keys, and knocked gently on the door.

"Who is it! Who is it!"

"It's Officer Richardson," I answered politely.

"What do you want, what do you want?"

I suppressed a humored smile; the man had to say almost everything twice. Poor guy.

"Cell block check, Sir."

Hearing a polite and respectful tone, Carter made his way from his bed and stood at the window. Through the dark opening, I saw his face, smiling at me sincerely.

"You can come in, come in."

"Thanks." I returned; I opened the cell with the keys. As I did so before, I closed it behind me in any case he thought of escape. I doubted this from Carter—he was comfortable in his two-of-a-kind home and no other place or hospital would grant him such luxuries as the asylum offered.

His cell was different than the rest; two beds took up most of the room, creating a queen-sized bed; two dressers filled the rest. There was only one gap for a person to stand in; everything else was taken up by furniture. Carter hopped on the bed, watching me enter; he smiled at me lightly, offering me a host's grin.

"How have you been, Kart?"

Like Calypso, he grinned when he heard his preferred name.

"Spectacular, tacular, Officer Richardson. You?"

"The same, I guess." I returned.

His room took the longest, ode to the twice as many hiding places. But like Calypso, he had nothing hidden in his drawers, for save a curious piece of paper. When I pulled it out of its hiding spot, I saw Carter in my peripheral vision tense as he watched me nervously.

Looking closer at the paper, it was a letter. Seeing the messy handwriting, the frequently misspelled words, and the stick figure of a man with 'Daddy' written across its forehead, I assumed Carter had a child.

"That's not considered Contraband contraband, is it. Is it?" Carter asked nervously.

"It is, technically," I stated. I placed it back in the dresser drawer, closing it. "But what they don't know won't hurt them."

Carter smiled at me with relief.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"I think she's four, four. Maybe ten, ten. I don't know, know. It's been long time, time since I saw her, her." Carter uttered; he fidgeted with his hands uncertainly, looking at me with unreasonable devastation. "Do you have children, children?"

"No, Sir. I don't." I replied honestly.

"Ever think about having one, one?"

"No." I answered, once again honestly. I glanced under his bed briefly—seeing nothing, I straightened.

"Do you like children, children, Officer?"

"Not particularly." I answered, smiling gently.

"Why not, not?" asked Carter, quirking his eyebrows at me. "My wife...wife...she thinks all women should have children, children. It's why we have, have one."

I smiled considerably: "Nothing against your wife, Carter, but I don't think all women have the patience for children."

"Duly considered, considered." Carter said, smiling at me.

"Your room is clean," I noted, walking to the door. "Have a good night, Mr. Carter."

"You too, Officer...Officer."

I closed the door.

I glanced down the hall to see James Kyle walking towards me.

"Procedure states that..." James began.

"I'm doing it my way," I countered his beginnings of procedure citing.

"You'll get hurt that way," James warned. "You can't go into a room by yourself. This is Level 2. We have rules."

"Your rules get people hurt," I told him. I tapped him on the shoulder with my flashlight saying, "I have my own way of dealing with these people. Go back to the nurse's station and do your job...so I can do mine."

James frowned, but he shook his head and obeyed me. I watched him walk down the hall, frowning after him in return. Despite his warning, I continued to the next cell.

(())

Medusa was a tidy woman if I ever saw one.

In her cell, she sat on a well-made bed. There were no creases or lumps in the comforter; she sat with the perfect posture and with her legs crossed like an Indian. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes resumed straight across the room even as I unlocked the door and entered the room with a smile on my face. She only glanced at me for a few seconds, taking in my stature, my badge, and my appearance.

"You are a girl." Medusa stated. Amusingly, her tone was surprised.

"I'd hope so," I stated. "Otherwise I've been lied to my entire life."

Medusa cracked a smile: "I was expecting Prathart."

"He called in tonight," I returned, raising my hands. "Thought he'd need another day off, I'm guessing."

"Hmm, how droll. People ask me why I cannot depend on men these days; I should be so bold to say that he is one of the reasons why I am completely dependent myself." Medusa responded.

Unlike Calypso, Medusa spoke every letter, syllable, and vowel like a well-educated English woman. Along with her specific pronunciation, she decidedly refused to use contractions.

Her hair fell down to her waist, in front and back. With peculiar skin that was the shade of a blue hue, I wondered if she suffered from a light case of cyanosis—when the skin turns blue because of a certain lack of oxygen, common in people being slowly strangled or who have been immersed in cold water far too often (see, I told you I could be a doctor). However, Medusa seemed unaware of her skin difference; she had never once acknowledged to me. Medusa smiled at me.

"Am I to assume that you have decided to substitute his raunchy behavior for yours?"

"With all due respect, Medusa, I'm not raunchy." I stated. "Bluntly honest, yes, but hardly raunchy."

Medusa looked me over from head to toe and smiled in spite of my disagreement: "Something tells me you are in a disorientated mood—not at all feeling as you usually do. Has some man caused your disheveled state, perhaps that husband of yours?"

I lowered my head so my gaze appeared offended.

Medusa shrugged, "I only ask because he seems to be the root of your problems. A man can be that way, my dear. By no fault of our own, we plant these seeds in our hearts and allow the weeds to dig their roots so deep in our hearts that we never notice their poison is in our blood stream—not until we attempt to cut them off completely...we are then left with malcontent, anger for our misguided views."

I stared at this woman, wondering what gardening had anything to do with my husband. I figured she was speaking out of her own hurt past, but I could have been wrong.

Aside from this, Medusa turned her body to me and said gently, "That is why we, women, are forced together to deal with these weeds. Sometimes a garden only needs to be introduced to a beautiful rose in order to be ridden of a dark repellent."

_I'm sorry, what? _

"As much as I'd love to talk about gardening, Medusa," I said smoothly, "And as flattering as your notions are, I'm afraid I'm only here to search your cell."

"Color me shocked," Medusa responded flatly. She gestured dramatically around her cell and said lightly, "Search to your heart's content, My dear."

Why did I find that invitation a little defensive?

I did as she invited me to do and when I'd finished, finding nothing, I looked at her pointedly.

"If not a beautiful rose," Medusa said while I had placed my hand on the door, "Maybe you are in need of something darker than your repellant. They say a weed may leave when another weed is planted; perhaps you prefer your garden to be a bit on the mulch-y side."

I turned to look at her.

"I'm sorry?"

Medusa smirked.

"Not _all_ flowers are placed in vases for beautiful décor, My dear," Medusa purred. "Sometimes, they are used for covering playgrounds. Sometimes, you can find them with the flowers."

_What the hell is she talking about_?

Medusa recognized my confusion so she leaned forward, her smirk widening.

"Your husband is a weed, my Dear. So often times has he attempted to disband the very garden you attempt to create but there is no relinquishing his tight schedule until you have found another weed to overcome his rooted habits."

Medusa stood to her feet, walking towards me. My hand on the door handle tightened when she was only two feet away from me, my eyes darkening when she touched my face with her hands.

"If you have not the interest for a rose," Medusa whispered, obviously talking about herself, "Then entice your interests with a different poison. He can be what your husband refuses to relent. He can be what your body, needs, desires..." She kissed my cheek, whispering seductively, "_Craves_."

Medusa stepped back, sensing my tension...or whatever else was happening to me.

I looked at her, surprised that I hadn't batted her away.

"It's obvious he's enticed with _you_." Medusa returned.

Yeah, I got her meaning now. I cleared my throat.

"It's good to see you again, Medusa." I stated quietly. I smiled briefly then walked out of the door, sighing deeply with relief as I closed and locked it on my way out.

Good lord, how did Lyle put up with all this?

_He threatens and hurts them, you twit. Remember your suspicions? _

I shook my head: Was I really any better? Allowing Medusa to make physical contact with me, to talk to me about clearly inappropriate things. Good grief...

When I glanced back in Medusa's cell, I gasped, startled. Medusa was standing at the door with a large creepy grin on her face. Had I not felt my feet moving, I might have thought I had been turned into stone.


	8. Illicit Affair

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

Author's Note: I know you all are having Joker Withdrawals. So wait no longer! XD

(Edit: 2/23: I just fixed a few awkward wording and grammar issues)

/

CHAPTER EIGHT: Illicit Affair

/

Level 2 occupied exactly sixteen cells, eight on each side. Only a few of the criminals inhabiting in these rooms were worth mentioning, and not a lot of them were 'famous' in Gotham. Some were just persistent offenders who were no longer able to take care of themselves but had to be watched carefully; some were insistent of their sanity, and tried to escape. Because of this problem, they were placed up here for better supervision, which on the night shift was clearly lacking in itself since the staff all stayed up at the nurse's station.

The small muttering I heard were five of the patients talking to themselves or in their sleep. I checked their cells without interrupting their absent-minded conversation, taking care to close the door on my way in and out with the notion of my surroundings, baring in mind that the last thing I needed was an escaped prisoner due to my carelessness or discomfort.

It went off without a hitch, that was until I realized I was at the end of the hall with two patient cells left to check. The two, of course, were Joker's and Victor's. Of the two lesser evils, I wanted to check Joker's before I even went into Victor's—but I knew to get the worst out of the way, regarding that James Kyle was about to go lunch and I was ready to get it over with and out of the way. I glanced inside the cell that Victor was inhabiting, only to realize that the man was staring straight at me. I frowned, hiding my fear.

I didn't want to be alone with him—even if he did swear up and down that he'd not lay a hand on me, which I knew to be a lie. I had been close enough to smell his stench and feel the tally mark scars on his arms to know that he was a damn good liar, however cunning he seemed to be...and was. James met me at the end of the hall.

"Stand back," I told Victor. "Cell Block check."

"Sure thing, sure thing." Victor returned, smirking as he did as he was told. He held his hands up in the air lazily, as if this was a complete joke to him. In all respects, it probably was ludicrous. To make sure this went perfectly, I pulled out my night stick, holding it with tense fingers when I opened the door for James, who went in ahead of me.Seeing my rudimentary weapon, Victor scoffed.

"Planning on using that thing?" Victor asked quietly.

"Quiet, Prisoner." James ordered.

I glanced at James unhappily, but said nothing as he continued to ransack this man's messy abode. I kept my flash light pointed in the direction James crawled (he was on his hands and knees, looking under the bed) while I kept my eyes on Victor, who stood against the wall, hands up in the air, making sure he made no quick moves. He knew I would happily hit him across the head with whatever I held in my hand...but I was no idiot.

I learned my lesson.

"Bed's clean," James Kyle stated. He got to his feet, looking at Victor; his eyes never left him as he said to me, "Wanna frisk him?"

"No," I said lightly. "I doubt he'd have anything on him."

James glanced at me curiously, as if he was shocked by my answer.

"But Officer Bolton checks every time," James stated.

I frowned and said, "Well, Officer Bolton isn't in charge." I lowered my flashlight: "I am. Now we're finished. Get out of here."

Victor lowered his hands at my orders but when I glared at him, he raised his hands again in the same lazy manner.

"You're too kind," Victor drawled, smirking at me. "A bit too trusting of you to assume I have no weapons on me. You'd be too foolish to think otherwise; I always have a weapon on me...if you get my gist." He winked.

I scoffed as James stepped forward.

"Don't, Kyle. He's not worth it." I said calmly.

James made a harsh scathing noise and walked out of the cell. Before he did, I stepped out, lowering my flashlight as I locked the door behind me. I made a step away before I heard Victor's voice directly behind the door; when I turned, he was smirking at me widely.

"Just so you know, Katie baby..." Victor breathed (I cringed at the pet name), "you oughta frisk me yourself one day. Who knows—you might like what you find."

I frowned at him, opening my mouth to speak. To stop my threatening advance, James touched my shoulder.

"Don't. He's not worth it."

I turned to look at James, saying, "Well you seemed more than happy to show him a thing or two when we were both in there."

"Lyle would." James offered. "He always does."

I glared at James: "_What_ exactly does Lyle_ do._"

James gaped at me as if I truly didn't get his 'meaning', whatever meaning I could have (or should have) comprehended. Yet, I had my suspicions, and this just made it even worse. James suddenly quieted down, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Thought so." I uttered unhappily. "Now go back to the nurse's station. I've got the rest of my job to do."

"But the Joker..."

"Trust me," I retorted coldly. "With your association with whatever Lyle does in this place after hours, I don't _want_ you with me. You'll probably piss him off."

James frowned, saying, "You can't be alone with the prisoner."

"He's a patient, Kyle."

"And a prisoner."

"Get out of my face." I ordered. "And that's not a request."

James stared at me, incredulous at my tone and the glare I was sending him. When James resigned that I was not backing down, he shook his head and walked up the hall again. I watched after him. When I turned to Joker's cell, I was startled to see that the aforementioned patient was at the door, his hands folded together around the bars with his chin on his thumbs, an idle smile playing on his scars while his eyes had been watching Kyle and me debate a few minutes prior to my looking at him. Joker smirked at me.

"Don't want others around me, huh?" Joker offered, his voice a mixture of curiosity and cunning. "Want me all to yourself?"

"No." I said. "You terrify me."

Joker gave a cruel chuckle that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

"Then why would such a scared little doe come into a tiger's den, I wonder?" Joker offered, glancing me up and down. "You're still in one piece—that's good to know."

"I've been doing this job for two years," I enlightened. "I know what I know to keep me in one piece."

"Ah," Joker sighed, "It doesn't matter how long you've been working here, Officer. It's what you _ learn_ from the ex-per-ience that makes you all the wiser. And from tha_t_ beauty"—his dark eyes flicked to my throat—"you've learned plenty."

I frowned, and he smiled in return.

"But you know what they say—the first isn't always the best." Joker stated. He licked from one corner of his mouth to the other with obvious entitlement, saying, "I should know."

"Please step away from the door." I told him, ignoring this silly conversation.

"'Please'? My, my, that's _qui__te _a change from ol' Lyle's usual bark and banter." Joker giggled, smirking at me. "Why so polite?"

"Just doing my job." I said, taking out my flash light.

"Mmm." Joker returned, smiling. "_That _sounds familiar."

"I'm not going to harm you, if that's what you're insinuating."

"Oh, no, by all means." Joker returned. "Harm me." He cracked a grin, lowering his head so his gaze appeared distinguishably demonic as he purred, "If you think you can get away with it."

I stared at him, uncertain if I even wanted to tread in the dangerous waters alone without a safety floating device. He stepped back from the door, in spite of his enthralling devices, and held up his hands pointedly as a surrender to his earlier invitation. I looked down at the door, unlocking it as I entered. I hesitated...

_What are you doing, Kate? What _**_the fuck_**_ are you doing? You can't be alone with him—you're mad! _

And yet, I felt _really _curious what Joker would do with only me to defend myself...if harming me was his true intention. I wasn't sure what his intentions were; I could not have guessed it from the time I met him earlier today to this point and on, but that's what made my heart beat quick in my chest, the pulse in my neck to drum repetitively as I entered the cell, closing the door behind me as I did. I gulped, my hands were sweating.

_You didn't get this nervous with Victor. _

_ I had James with me._

_ As if he was any use._

_ Well, that's true._

I might as well had been by myself with James in the room with me in Victor's little habitat. But this was different. I didn't feel fear, to the degree that I should have. I'd seen the video footage of what Joker was capable, and that was minute to what I'd seen on GCN—the pictures of Gambol's carved face, the Brian Douglas make-over, the remnants of a detonated hospital, the happenings of the ferries...forget the fact this man went head-to-head with Batman and wasn't traumatized by the event.

"How was the reunion with ol' Vicky?" Joker asked.

I glanced at him.

"Sorry?"

"Vicky," repeated Joker. He pointed a digit at the door. "Did you uh..._like_ the reunion? I guess it would put a damper on your date, considering you had a third wheel."

"It wasn't a date," I returned. "I'm happily married."

_Great, tell your personal information. You just broke Rule 2: Don't tell patients personal information._

_ Wrong, asshole, that's Rule 3. Rule 2: Don't go into patient rooms alone..._

_ Well you broke that one too._

I considered that. Well, if anyone found out about this I was certainly in for an ass-chewing.

I had bit my lip when I thrust out that piece of information willingly. It had taken Catherine almost a whole year to find out that I was married. Now Joker knew within twenty-fours—_and he didn't even force the information out of me._

"Married, huh?" Joker asked.

I sighed, looking from the dresser top, to Joker. He was smirking—what a shocker.

"Yes." I responded.

Then again, I figured he knew by now. He might have mentioned it or someone could have told him anytime, just as I told Calypso that Prathart called in. He'd get a lot of questions from Calypso about his laziness and then Prathart would be questioning my motives for telling patients about his frequent tardiness—but all the patients knew about that.

I glanced at him again, wondering if he'd take the opportune moment to disarm me. Throw me against the wall, disarm me by taking my flashlight. Hit me with it, maybe.

But he made no such move. He simply watched me.

And that was enough to make my skin crawl...oddly enough, not in the sense that it should have. Instead, I was becoming flustered. I might have stared back at him for only god knows how long. He wore the orange uniform, but his sleeves were always rolled below his elbows, revealing the muscular definition. His hands were up in that same lazy surrender, imitating Victor, but his act was less sarcastic.

I noticed his hair was just as green as it had been before; but the difference, comparing Joker from television and the one standing before me, was not his hair or his scars, which were just as rigid and mutilated as I remembered them.

There were bruises on his face. And the way he smiled, it looked as if he was somehow wincing. I wondered if he had hurt himself, or maybe someone else had done this to him.

Maybe it was a play to my empathy I had for patients.

Maybe it was nothing.

Like I said—he kept me guessing. Therefore, it made me paranoid and equally excited.

"You have a habit of staring, Officer." Joker said smoothly.

I blinked. _Crap._

I looked through the dresser to distract my eyes from him. He had as much as the rest of them—just clothes. Nothing hiding in his dresser drawers, or anywhere else. I still had to look under the bed but what were the odds he had anything under _there_? I wondered...Joker having the reputation he did, I knew I'd have to look anyway.

"What does your husband do?" Joker asked curiously.

I turned from the dresser to look at him. He had lowered his hands, but he seemed harmless..._seemed_ was the word here.

"That's inappropriate, don't you think?" I asked quietly.

"You're obviously tense," Joker returned calmly, gesturing to me. "Thought I'd _lighten_ the mood."

"I'm not tense." I disagreed. "I'm just..."

"Nervous?" Joker finished, smiling at me.

I cleared my throat discreetly, pretending I had something caught in there but in all honesty, I was definitely nervous. Sure, I was scared—he was the Joker. He killed people, unhinged the mob, and might have well been the reason Harvey Dent was no longer alive. He killed cops, judges, and held no remorse for his actions.

Of _course _he made me nervous.

But at the same time...

"I'm not nervous." I denied it completely.

Joker chuckled—it startled me, because it sounded really attractive. It came from deep within his throat.

"Of course not," he patronized. "But why should you be?"

He stepped towards me.

I held my ground, despite my better judgment. My thought process was that if he came too close, I could always walk out of the door, close it behind me really fast, and then start dancing in front of him like an eight year old who beat another kid in freeze tag.

"Armed with a night stick, badge and flash light—you can hurt me all you want," Joker told me in his an eerily calm voice...which sounded dangerous as he was closing the distance between us.

"Avenge your fallen comrades..." Joker offered. He opened his arms to me pointedly. "Why not? You can displace the camera footage, quiet a few patients with some threats and then" he licked his scars out of habit, "go home and sleep with a big smile on your face."

I stepped back when he moved forward quickly. My thoughts of a quick escape held fast when I found my arms pinned beside my shoulders by his hands, and his lips curving into a malicious smile. I expected to die right then, with my back pinned against the door, but he simply grinned widely.

"Or maybe..." Joker uttered quietly. "You don't _want_ to go home."

I stared at him, eyes widened with uncertainty. Why didn't I fight him? Why didn't I fight back?

_Come on, Kate—fight back! _

Somewhere along the lines of my thoughts, I acted. I pushed him away from me and expected to take that handle, force it open and then jam it back behind me so to keep the door between him and myself.

Naturally, that didn't happen.

The moment I pushed him away, he was back on me, except this time I was pinned with my front against the door. The loud thud of my chest slamming against the metal door and the harsh slap of my hands being pinned on either side of my head had gone unnoticed by the other patients and staff. Behind me, Joker was giggling; and then he fell into a state of seriousness.

I shook in my boots. I was frightened—more than ever.

"Ooh, we have a fighter." Joker drawled; his voice vibrated in my ear, sending a dark chill down my back. Strangely, it wasn't fear what I expected...it was something _else_.

"If you're going to kill me," I uttered with surprising calm, "Do it."

"Kill you?" Joker repeated. I felt his hand leave my left wrist and felt it next on my neck, pushing my head back so his palm cupped my throat; the other digits lined themselves along my jugular. His hands were rough from laborious criminality. With my body against the door and his body trapping me against it, I saw no escape.

"Why would I kill you?" Joker offered. "No, no, no...I _like_ **you**, Ka**t**e."

When his hand on my neck slackened, I made a push away from him, dodging underneath his upper body so I came full circle. I snatched his wrists behind his back, kicked him behind his knees so he fell to them. My arm went around his neck in a choke hold.

"Touch me again, and I'll make sure you regret it." I told him coldly.

Joker laughed.

"I didn't know we were going to dance—I feel _so_ under dressed."

His comment disarmed me, and that was my fault.

I was on my back as he threw me off, pinning my arms down; he straddled my waist, grinning broadly at me. I began struggling.

"Oh, don't tell me you don't enjoy this." Joker chuckled, watching me squirm. He emitted a low moan that made my insides turn with pleasurable discomfort as he muttered, "Keep wiggling, Officer. That feels kinda nice."

I stared at him, stopping completely.

He laughed shortly, lowering his head so we were close enough to kiss; I doubted that was his intention.

"You know, you women give off a certain something that makes us men _know _you're being neglected." Joker stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "Maybe you don't know it, but you certainly show i**t**. So I've just been sitting in my little cage, wondering if you are just a neglected _happily_ married wife, or maybe...I'm just going a little crazy."

I continued to stare at him. I narrowed my eyes and finally uttered, "Maybe it's _both_."

"Hmm, D) All of the above." Joker returned, smirking. "Let's go back to my earlier question: What does your husband _do_."

"What does it matter to you?"

"I'm curious."

"Why?"

"No idea—I have a natural curiosity." Joker returned. "Anyway, you're not in the position to interrogate, _are you_, Officer Kate?" He smirked: "_Beautiful_ name by the way, certainly a dime a dozen of Kates out there, but you don't seem so...shy."

"What makes you think I'd start selling out my personal information to a man like you."

"It's not just me," Joker returned smoothly. "All men are like me."

"Wrong." I retorted.

Joker raised his eyebrows and said, "Oh yeah? Who?"

"My husband." I returned callously. "So you're wrong."

"But you wish I was right, I bet."

"No."

"No?" Joker replied, chuckling. "Stop me if you don't like this."

Without my permission or any remote sign of consent, his mouth came down on mine, hard. When I was awakened to my senses, I realized he was kissing me—and none too gentle. I closed my mouth tightly to keep his intentions at bay but I felt his tongue on my upper lip, and it forced between my lips with practiced intrusion. I attempted to wriggle away from him but he had me pinned down on my back really well...so well...I was equally surprised and disgusted.

However, when his tongue found mine, my body was no longer denying him. There was a certain arousing allure to a hardened criminal like him subduing a security guard like me—a dirty little fantasy most people role played and yet, here I was. I still tried to bat him off me, knowing I was definitely breaking rules in my job but I was taken aback.

Joker enticed my tongue to dance with his, and before I knew it, I was kissing him back. Adrenaline poisoned excitement into my blood stream, and my heart rate excelled its usual high intensity.

What amazed me was that this kiss only lasted ten seconds. When he broke it, I stared at him—my breathing was erratic. In ten seconds, he could do to me what it took for Gary to do in forty-five minutes. My mind stumped at Gary...

That was until Joker smirked knowingly at me.

"Get off me." I ordered.

"Tell me what your husband does," Joker stated calmly. "And I'll do what you've asked."

"You'll do what I ask regardless." I stated coldly.

Joker's eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Ooh, fiery." Joker purred.

"Get the fuck off me!" I snarled.

Joker smirked, adding, "And a temper too!"

"I said—"

A hand went over my mouth. I still muffled my little curse words, thinking he'd comply but that didn't work out according to plan. While it angered me that he was stifling my anger (like Gary), I was a bit riled by the pleasurable discomfort that quaked in my loins when I felt him reposition; it was a simple readjustment so he could lean forward, but I felt him alright—the obvious arousal of a man, and its hardened requisition made formidable contact between my legs.

With my free hand, I attempted to hit him; He caught that hand and then placed both of my wrists in his one hand, smirking when I realized I was out of options.

"Don't tell me you don't like it." Joker growled quietly.

_Oh my..._

"It's more than obvious," Joker told me, grinning. "It's in your voice. It's in your face..." He emitted a low moan when I attempted to wriggle underneath him; he stifled his release of pleasure as he said, "And I, _per-son-ally_, feel it underneath me."

He moved his hand from my mouth, smiling down at me.

"I'm a generous man," Joker said lightly. "I don't do well in the business world—too many rules, too many policies, although I do like the loopholes." He chuckled: "Lots of fun when it comes to politicians. They get bought off with anything: money, jewels, favors, bargains, votes...women. But you...Officer _Kate_, seem a little more wily than the ape."

I furrowed my eyebrows at the term and he explained shortly, "Bolton."

"What do you want with me?" I asked quietly.

"Me?" Joker returned. "Oh, no, you have me _all _wrong. This is about you."

"I'm not responsible for any of this..."

"Oh yes, you are." Joker stated. "It's why you stare at me every time we talk. It's why you insisted upon coming here, knowing what I'm capable of, and..." He sighed lightly, "It's why you've not screamed yet. It's like you don't _want_ to scream. So don't say you're not responsible."

I frowned: "I'm not the one that's sitting on me."

Joker giggled, "Well, you're right about that, Doll Face."

"Don't call me 'Doll Face'."

"Fair enough," Joker remarked. "But I have a different bargain, if you're willing."

"Willing?" I repeated incredulously. "I'm not _willing_ to do any of this."

"Then scream." Joker dared.

I blinked. For some reason, I couldn't. Not only did I like the feeling of him being on me, I also felt stupid just letting out a blood curdling shriek in his face.

"I'm not going to scream."

"Why not?"

"I'd be screaming in your face." I told him. "That would be rude."

Joker blinked, staring at me this time. When a moment had passed, he laughed. Genuinely, he laughed as if he found me truly amusing in a general way. I was taken aback naturally by the humane sound coming from him, but that vanished quickly.

"You're funny." Joker mused.

"Great. Now get off me."

"Ask me nicely."

"What?"

"Ask me nicely." Joker repeated. "Oh, and while you're at it—tell me what your husband does."

I sighed, "_Why do you want to know so badly_?"

Joker chuckled: "I want to know about you."

"Then get a phonebook."

Joker laughed again.

"You make me laugh, Officer. You're hilarious."

"Great, now get off me."

Joker shrugged: "Tell me what your husband does."

I sighed—there was no way out of this, was there?

"If I tell you what he does, will you then get off me?"

"Maybe. It wouldn't hurt your chances." Joker said.

I stared at him incredulously but I answered him none the less.

"He's a lawyer."

Joker cracked a grin at me, and said, "Name?"

"You just asked for his occupation."

"Hey, there's a saying that applies to this situation; give a woman an inch, and she'll stretch a mile. Of course, it doesn't apply _exactly_, but you get the gist."

I blinked, saying, "That's inappropriate."

"Mm, so is your physiological response to me, but uh I won't judge if you won't." Joker returned. With that being said, he lowered his mouth to mine again and kissed me roughly.

I tried to fight him off again but once more, I relinquished when it felt too enticing to stop. I wanted to fight it—for the sake of my marriage and all that was righteous, but a part of me was wanting him to kiss me roughly, to feel a roughness that I longed for.

He released my hands. I figured when I got to this point, I'd fight him off and scream bloody murder. But instead, I was taken in. It was like being on a five year diet and finding that German Chocolate Cake—one bite wouldn't satisfy.

Joker was my German Chocolate Cake.

True to his word, he got off me, no longer straddling my waist. I sat up and quickly moved to the door before he could entice me again. But the moment I held that door handle, he appeared behind me; his hands moved under my arms and wrapped their fingers around my neck, pushing my head back on his shoulder. His lips brushed my ear; I felt his scars, rough against my soft skin.

"A businessman I am, so I'll make you an offer not even a person like you, Kate, can refuse."

"Do I have a choice?" I asked.

"Of course you do, Doll Face." Joker drawled.

The depth of his voice I felt vibrate in my chest was one I'd remember for the rest of my life, assuming that I left this whole thing alone and remained unscathed. The likelihood of that happening was dimmed when I felt his tongue lick my ear.

"Quid Pro Quo, Officer," Joker purred. "I'll give you what you want the most—what you obviously _need_"(his voice deepened on the note) "just as long as you tell me what I want to know."

"What do you want to know?" I whispered. I could scarcely hide the arousal I felt just by a hard criminal like him standing behind me as he was before.

"Everything." Joker returned. "About you."

"Why?"

"I have a natural curiosity. That, and a man locked away has to have a hobby to keep his mind off the length of time he has to serve," Joker drawled. "I have a lot of time."

"Why does that have anything to do with me?" I breathed.

Joker smirked and said, "Oh, I'm sure you know."

In all honesty, I did know. He withdrew his hands from my neck and kissed just underneath my jaw. I sighed pleasantly, against my better judgment. Joker smirked against my skin; I felt his scars elongating.

"Daddy needs a new hobby," Joker purred. "And you look like a woman who can occupy a man's time _plenty_."

He stepped back, and I turned around to look at him.

"Like I said," Joker returned "You _do_ have a choice. But for some reason, I think I'll see you very soon." He winked.

When I frowned at him, he shrugged and added, "But I've been wrong before."

At that moment, I knew I'd be seeing him again. I walked out of the cell, locking the door on my way out. James Kyle was waiting in the hall for me. As I continued down the hall, he was surprised to see me in one piece.

"Hey, you're alive." James joked.

"More than you realize." I uttered, feeling my heart still race.

I found the nearest bathroom to get myself together. When I sat on the toilet to do what most girls do on the toilet, I realized that my panties were soaked. Apparently, Joker had been more than right about my neglect.

_Kate...what..._

_ Shut up._

I silenced my mind. It was wrong of me to think this, and it is still wrong of me to think that I thought of it before but I knew what I wanted at that moment. I had known what I wanted all this time before. I'd wanted a love affair...but who knew I'd get it from the Joker.


	9. Self-Destruction

**I've Been Wrong Before**

Author's Note: I went back and revised Chapter Eight because—thanks to a lovely reviewer—I reread and noticed a lot of grammar issues and awkward wording. XD Sometimes I get ahead of myself. Anyway, thank you all for reviewing. :-)

/

_CHAPTER NINE: Self-Destruction_

_/_

Five o'clock in the morning.

It wasn't a surprise to me that the hours had slowly dragged by and for save a small issue with a suspicious homeless man that constantly walked around the hospital as if he was searching for something or someone, that was the only minor disturbance of the day...excluding my odd exuberance with the Joker cornering me in his cell, thanks to my carelessness.

I sat in the camera room, watching the halls. An hour would pass and then I'd be giving report to Lyle Bolton, who'd arrive sometime between now and six-thirty. Being head of security, he thought he could simply come and go as he pleased; I couldn't blame him. If I had the luxury, I would rarely come in at all.

Deciding that I was too tired to sit and stare at the live video feed, I began walking through the hospital, doing one last sweep before I could say that all was clear. Walking down the halls in a smooth gait made me realize just how tired I was—the night had been long; that was for sure.

And my mind had been racing with all Joker had said to me.

He offered himself to me. Just _what_ he was offering was made more than obvious, even if he didn't say it forthright but I knew if I took that deal, that kind of bargain one would only make with the Devil...that would be the end of my career and, inevitably, my life.

However, that didn't make me throw the idea away completely. Sure, the Joker made me nervous. Of course, I had the slightest notion of fright that he would have raped me if that had been his intentions. He was a strong guy despite a lean muscular frame; for one so lean, I wouldn't have guessed his strength.

I glanced at my hands, my eyes flickering over my wedding band.

Fourteen karat gold wedding band, clear cut diamond. Gary loved me.

_Think about _**_him_**_ for a change, Kate. It's your husband—for god's sake, you're married._

I frowned.

A part of me wished I wasn't married.

Believe it or not, the decision could have been made a lot easier. I loved my job but I'd throw it away if it meant not working in a place full of crazies.

But Gary...

_He hasn't hit you, Kate. He hasn't cheated. Why do you feel the need to do this to him? _

That was the funny thing about the entire situation. I didn't _need_ to feel threatened in order to feel alive. However, I _wanted_ to feel that rush of adrenaline—that daring, Devil-May-Give-A-Damn-But-I-Sure-Don't feeling. I used to have that kind of rush when I was first starting out in Arkham, not knowing what could happen, not knowing that when I stepped foot into this hospital, I could very well risk my life to save a nurse from a butter knife-wielding madman.

I no longer felt that rush anymore. I no longer felt alive.

_At least you _**_are _**_alive, ya ungrateful bitch._

I winced. Sometimes my thoughts could dig a little deeper than I found comfortable.

I stopped walking, halting my footsteps in front of the stairs that led up to Level 2.

_Don't walk up those stairs, Kate. You have your job on the line—it may be boring, now, but at least it's a fucking job._

I started up the stairs.

_Think of your husband! _

I was ascended halfway, and stopping with my left hand on the banister. Yeah...think of my husband. I did think of him.

I kept everything straight and organized for him. I made sure my plans didn't supersede his—unless it absolutely could not be helped. I couldn't blame Gary for being uptight about his timing, obsessed with his organization. I couldn't blame him for feeling uncomfortable with calling me terms of endearment. After all, I went into this marriage _knowing_ what kind of a person he was.

_That's right, you did, Kate. You made a vow. Now go back down those stairs..._

I did the opposite of what my mind demanded.

_What the hell, KATE! GET BACK DOWN THOSE STAIRS!_

"Shut up," I hissed.

_What about Gary?_

"What about him?" I muttered. "The last thing I need is for him to have a panic attack when he finds out I'm even contemplating doing this."

_He'd have a heart attack finding out you _**_are_**_ doing this!_

Despite that, I finished up the stairs, stopping at the last with some hesitation.

Was I in the wrong to do what I was thinking of doing? Yes. Did I think I was going to get away with it? Absolutely not.

What Joker offered was something that went against everything for which I stood. I didn't want to hurt Gary, but I knew the moment I told him our marriage was flatlining, he'd be in a state of panic. However, he was so blinded to my emotions anyway that he'd never catch onto the difference between Satisfied Kate or Disappointed Kate. And if he had a problem with my anger, would this not solve all the problems in the marriage?

_Your problems are not just about sex, Kate._

My immediate thought to that was, "_Maybe Joker can help with that too."_

_ He won't listen to you, Kate._

"At this point," I muttered, "I don't give a damn."

_You have a job. You have a home. You have a loving husband—you're prepared to risk all that for this psychopathic murderer!? _

I didn't realize I was at the nursing station of Level 2 until James Kyle pulled me out of my argumentative reverie, stirring me with his hand on my arm.

"Making your rounds again, Officer?" asked James politely.

I blinked, still thinking of my past thought.

"Yeah," I finally answered, a bit startled.

"Are you okay?"

"Perfect," I responded smoothly.

"Cool. Do you want help with the patients?"

"Nah, I've got this." I returned.

"If you say so," said James, shrugging his shoulders.

I slid my key card down the pass code lock and when it made a small 'ding', I entered through the door, closing it behind me. I ignored the awakening patients, making a determined stride to the end of the hall, stopping at the last block on the left.

"Hey, Katie Baby."

I heard Victor behind me—did that man ever sleep?

I glanced around at him and said, "Good Morning."

Victor stared at me, surprised by my civility. I turned back around. I clicked my key inside the door lock, opening one dead bolt then another, clicking a few numbers in the green-glowing number chart and when all of these codes had been entered, I heard the door unlatch. I opened the door and closed it behind me, locking myself in the room, and seeing Joker.

He stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, relaxed. He smirked at me when I gave him a cool look.

"Sooner than I expected," Joker greeted.

"It doesn't start today." I said.

"Ooh, am I supposed to take that as a 'yes' on your behalf?" Joker responded, grinning. "Because you know..." He stepped towards me. "It's still an hour before your posse comes a-huntin'." He lowered his head so the smirk appeared quite mischievous, and it sent chills down my back in an unnatural pleasant way.

"We can get a _lot_ done in an hour." He drawled. Then as an afterthought, he added, "Well, at least _I_ can."

I took a step towards him.

"Don't talk. Listen."

He raised his head, looking down at me, smiling when he recognized a challenging feat. I realized I was a foot shorter than him but even then, I watched him cautiously, minding my surroundings.

"What you're offering is immoral, unethical, and inappropriate." I stated plainly. "It goes against everything I stand for, and violates a sanctity in my marriage. If anyone found out about this..."

"Oh please," Joker interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a rat like some of _you_, Kate." He chuckled at my confusing look as he added, "I can keep a secret just as long as you can."

He made a movement of zipping his lips then throwing away a key. I raised my eyebrow at this kindred response but I shook my head, shaking off that part of me that wanted to laugh at such a childish gesture.

"What do you get out of this?" I asked.

"Out of, what, getting to know you?" asked Joker.

"Yes."

Joker chuckled, "Getting on a first-name basis with a female cop hasn't ever been my aspiration in life, but...that's why I never set long-term goals." He lowered his arms.

"So why the curiosity?" I asked.

"Why so serious?" Joker inquired in return.

"Why are you answering my question with another question?" I responded heatedly.

Joker rolled his eyes again.

Then quite suddenly, he took hold of my shoulders and slammed me against the wall. I was so shocked by the action itself that I didn't make a sound; I simply stared at him. He looked angry, then his mood swiftly changed to amusement.

"Haven't you ever did anything on an impulse, Officer, hm?" Joker asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Habit."

"Habit?" replied Joker. "Habit is turning off lights before you leave the house. A habit, Kate, is leaving the toilet seat up even while ladies are present. I've never known a woman not to act on impulse—you all are an indecisive bunch."

I frowned.

"I've never had the chance to _be _impulsive," I responded.

Joker lowered his hands away from me, letting me go.

"Why not?"

"Does it matter at this point?" I retorted irritably. "Does it really matter _why_ I haven't ever had the urge to just _do things_."

"It kinda does," Joker returned, gesturing to me. "For someone who isn't im-pul-sive, you're quick to jump the gun on this one." He indicated the situation by placing his hands on his chest, smirking at me knowingly.

"So tell me," said Joker with calculating smile, "why the change of heart?"

I frowned: "Like I said...it doesn't matter."

"Ohh, wrong answer. See it matters to _me_." Joker stated. "And that's the question you're gonna have to answer before we do anything."

I shrugged carelessly: "Maybe I've changed my mind."

"You know, for a security guard—and a pretty one at that," Joker returned knowingly, "you're a _terrible_ liar. At least put some effort into it; it's just insulting when you don't."

I opened my mouth to say otherwise, but Joker advanced towards me once more. I made a habit of putting my hands in front of me, shielding whatever assault he could oppress, but I was disarmed as he shoved my hands away. I half-screamed when he separated my legs with his hands, moving between them. In one of his hands, he took both of my wrists, lifting them above my head; his free one held my throat so as to force my mouth against his. I struggled, naturally...

"Pretend all you want, Doll Face." Joker said, smiling. "I like a good fight."

_Hmmm..._

I hadn't intended for the moan to be louder than my thoughts but I had involuntarily moaned into his mouth when the kiss had deepened. He was a damn good kisser. When he heard my response and apparently had been pleased by it, Joker stepped away from me so I stared at him, amazed by my own reaction.

"Why the hell did you do that?" I demanded, angered by my body's deception.

Joker shrugged, saying, "I wanted to see what you'd do." He grinned broadly, "And you didn't disappoint."

"Fantastic." I muttered.

I walked past him, ready to open the door.

"Atatatata," Joker chastised as he pulled my arm towards him. "We're not finished."

"Oh yes we are."

"Oh, no we're not," Joker disagreed.

And apparently that was final, for his grip on my arm was vice-like. I gazed at him challengingly but I was on uneven grounds. I was in his territory for the moment. Joker smiled evenly, but the threat in his eyes made it clear that I was currently powerless.

"You don't want your people to know what goes on between us," Joker offered, "then I have a condition of my own."

"I'm not fairing conditions."

"Sorry, Doll Face, this one isn't negotiable." Joker replied sarcastically.

I glanced at his grip on my arm, then looked up at him, bracing myself.

"Fine. What is it?"

"When any cop is obligated to enter my room, I don't want Lyle, or Cecil, or even self-adoring Scott Pritchard. I want you." Joker stated.

"I can't authorize that." I replied.

"Then make it happen," Joker returned.

"Or?"

Joker's smile stretched from ear-to-ear and said dangerously, "I don't think I need to tell you the rest."

He continued to hold my arm in such a harsh grip, I knew I'd have a bruise there. He touched my face with his free hand, and patted it hard enough that it was more than a simple love tap, but at least it wasn't a good ol' slap in the face. It did make me flinch a little.

"You're a responsive broad, I'll give you that." Joker stated, noticing my reaction to him. When I stared at him uncertainly, he added, "Oh, believe me, that won't count against you. It only makes me wonder what you'll do when we _really _start getting to know one another."

"Fantastic," I remarked.

I pulled away from him. This time, he simply let me go, which surprised me. I glanced at him curiously, and he waved at me.

"Tell Lyle I said 'hello'." Joker drawled carelessly. "And your husband too."

I shook my head, completely disturbed by him...and yet...

I didn't need any of this, I knew that for certain. I was unintentionally looking for self-destruction. I'd learn that in time, but by that time, it'd be too late.


	10. Madness, A Blessing

**I'd Been Wrong Before**

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_Author's Note: _**BlueJeansVonTeese, nemesis, Black Rose Kalli, RealHuntress18, **and **tracey. Ja****co****b****y: **Thank you for your reviews :) I value constructive criticism as long as it remains useful. The positive reviews are bonus! XD I dare not disappoint (like Batman hehehe).

**Disclaimer**: The number '4479' for Joker's patient number wasn't my own idea. It belongs to the brilliant writers of Joker Blogs, namely Scott McClure (_director, producer, actor—btw, who plays Joker_). The number, of course, Heath Ledger's birthday. Thought I'd put it in there before I started receiving credit for that genius. :)

**Chapter Ten: Madness, A Blessing**

–

"The only odd thing to happen over night was a suspicious visitor. Personally I never saw him, but one of the nurses reported an odd man walking around the hospital, looking for something. My guess was that he was just a visitor, trying to see if the visiting hours were still open." I told Lyle, Cecil, and Scott during report.

They stood around me in the break room; all three of them were drinking a cup of coffee. A fourth man joined the group just as I was explaining the odd disturbance of a suspicious bystander that offered no more threat than a homeless man did in the Narrows.

The fourth was named Ricky Durkes. Wide around the hips, and around the lips. The latter is a phrase that I've used to describe his gossipy nature; the man would be better off being one of those telephone marketeers that jabber on about useless products. He talked more than he could be working, but when he was a large man, weighing about three-hundred pounds, I wondered how quickly he'd respond to a break-out. My bet was that he'd be one of the first to die or to bolt to the escape, being that the only way he could arise as victor would be to sit on a patient.

Ricky had large eyebrows that were normally raised with interest in the conversation, and always arrived later than usual. That being said, I wasn't surprised to see him strolling into the break room while I went over all that happened last night. I made sure not to mention the little talks I had with Patient 4479.

"What happened?" asked Ricky.

His voice was higher than usual—for a man that weighed three times much as I did. I looked at him with a hint of annoyance; being on the clock for twelve hours and spending an hour of reporting the nothings of last night had already exhausted me. This man was only piling it on.

"We'll brief you," Lyle said, ignoring Ricky for the moment as he turned to me. He sipped his coffee, then glanced my tired appearance. "Rough night, Richardson?"

"Not as rough as it could be." _Or as rough as you'd _**_like _**_it to be. _

I felt my face get hot from the sudden thought of a nice banging in a small broom closet, while I showed Joker what police brutality could really feel like in the most provocative sense. The montage made my insides squirm pleasurably, but that was not the right feeling I wanted in front of three officers..my bad, _four_. I just didn't see Ricky as one of us.

"So other than the visitor, it's been pretty quiet," summarized Cecil O'Brien. He stroked his beard, brushing away the biscuit crumbs, and then drank a large, loud gulp of his coffee. He grinned at me: "If that kind of activity wears you down, Katelynn, I'm kinda curious how far Gary can get with you before you..."

I waited for Cecil to finish his remark so I could report him to Arkham, but that didn't happen. Lyle beat me to the punch, taking my shoulder so he pulled me away from Cecil, who had stepped back when I advanced threateningly towards him.

"Go home, Richardson. You're tired." Lyle ordered cautiously. "O'Brien, we're gonna have another talk about how you're supposed to talk to women."

"I was jus' joking!" Cecil complained, waving his arm at me. "She just can't take a joke."  
Scott frowned, saying, "Nonsense—Kate loves a good ol' knee slapper. Your jokes just aren't funny."

"What was the joke?" Ricky popped from behind Scott, who side-stepped him unhappily.

Scott and Ricky didn't like each other. Clarification: Ricky _thought_ Scott liked him but that was just an assumption. Ricky was late, lazy, a gossip, and relied solely on everyone else to do the job for him. Scott was the exact opposite; so when Scott really got to know Ricky, the man couldn't stand to be anywhere near Ricky's obtrusive behavior, forget being in the same room with him.

Naturally, Ricky didn't see Scott's disgusted expression. The former simply mistook the latter's disgust for weariness. Scott seemed almost ninety-years-old standing around Ricky. Stress could age a person.

"I'm going home," I muttered. "I don't have time for this."

"Wait, Wait..."

I glanced at Ricky unhappily.

"What."

"Can you do something for me, really quick?"

"No." I returned. "I'm tired. I'm going home."

"I just need help checking a few cells."

"You don't need to check the cells," I returned.

"It's Cell Block checks, morning..."

Interrupting Ricky's speech of procedure, I snapped, "I _know_ the routine." I glanced at Lyle, unable to hide my annoyance with the lazy security guard as I said, "No need to check the cells this morning. I did that my last rounds. There was nothing in any of the cells."  
"No contraband?" Lyle asked.

I thought of Kart Carter's picture that his four-year-old daughter had drawn for him. I didn't know how Carter was able to get that picture, or who'd brought it to him. I frowned for a second, knowing I had to give the patient to Lyle for questioning about a possible rat within the company, but instead, I decided it was nothing to worry about.

"No contraband," I returned smoothly.

_Good. You decide to __have__ an affair with a mass murdering criminal and suddenly _**_all _**_of your morals are dropped. Great job, Kate. Great start. _

Lyle looked at Ricky, who waited for bated breath as to what they would do later in the morning.

"We won't check them right now," Lyle said. "If Richardson says there was no contraband, I believe her."

Cecil chuckled, "Yeah, she _says_ there's nothing. But we know how she gets really chummy with them when they're alone."

"I'm not _chummy_." I rounded on him. "But it wouldn't hurt you to be a little kinder to them. They're humans, not fucking pigs."

"They're murderers," Cecil corrected. "And you're ignorant for making friends with..."

I started towards him, grabbing after his neck but he ran behind Ricky, who suddenly became this big bouncer. Ricky put his two feet out, as if waiting for me to saunter towards him. I wasn't stupid, but I did give Cecil the most hateful stare I could offer him.

"I'm not ignorant," I breathed dangerously.

"You're befriending them because you're afraid of them," Cecil challenged, smirking. "That's why you talk to them like you're their friend. So when they might escape, you be their best pal-pal in the world. God knows that's cowardly."

Lyle cleared his throat, glaring at Cecil.

"That's enough from you, O'Brien." Lyle scolded. He looked at me. "Kate, come with me."

I frowned when the other officers were free to leave. I watched after them, shooting daggers after Cecil, who received a harsh scolding from Scott for calling me a coward. Ricky said something about Cecil being awfully bold for messing with me. As you could clearly see, I had a bit of a temper.

Lyle looked at me pointedly, taking a chair from the table and placing it in front of him. He gestured to it firmly.

"Sit." He ordered.

"I'm not a dog." I retorted tiredly.

"Sit..._please_."

I did as I was told.

Lyle took a seat in front of me.

"What happened last night?" asked Lyle gently.

"What are you talking about?" I returned.

Lyle smiled. It was a genuine grin. I was surprised to see no cynicism in his face; his normally haughty features were shadowed by amusement; arms on the table, hands clasped together, that smile on his face. A bystander would think we were having a decent conversation between old school friends.

I didn't feel so friendly.

"Nothing happened last night," I stated.

"That was twice I had to intervene so you didn't punch O'Brien."

"The fucker annoys me." I returned honestly.

Lyle laughed heartily at my response: "Oh really? I didn't get that."

I frowned: "I'm not ignorant, Bolton. And I'm not _chummy_ with the prisoners."

"Well, you _are _a little on the friendly side with them; O'Brien was just pointing out that because you seem to be on good terms with all the prisoners—aside from Victor—you might be covering for them," said Lyle, notably. He gestured to me in general, adding, "I've seen you go into these cells by yourself. You know the policy, don't you, Richardson? Rule number..."

I leaned forward.

"You have your way of dealing with these people. I have my way."

"My way is the company's way." Lyle reasoned. He frowned. "You went into Patient 4479's cell alone last night. Twice, actually. I've seen the video footage, and James Kyle told me you were insistent on going to the other cells by yourself. Some of these people have committed brutal murders, _including _ Patient 447—"

"Stop saying their numbers." I interrupted irritably.

Lyle blinked in response, shocked at my reaction. He smiled—the cynicism was back.

"You can get hurt by doing these your way, Richardson. I know your way—you get too personal with these people. You think just because they enjoy your company that they'll be friendly to you later in the future? Do you think," Lyle scoffed, "They view you differently because you call them 'sir' or 'ma'am'? You're making it better for them here; so you're making it worse for us."  
"Why?" I asked coldly. "Because I call them by the names they prefer?"

"It doesn't help their treatment."

"Oh come off it, Bolton," I hissed. "You're not trying to treat them. Leave it to the fucking doctors to do that."

Lyle, again, blinked at me. He frowned deeply, leaning towards me unhappily.

"Richardson, I don't like you. I don't like your tone, or how you think you should treat these people. These people aren't like us. They're murdering psychopaths—they've killed men, women, and children, Kate—_children_...and you want to treat them as equals?"

"You may treat them like scumbags and call them names or whatever the hell you do, but that doesn't mean I have to."

Lyle stood to his feet, looking down at me.

"I'm just assuming all of this talk is because you had a long night. I know you're not used to that kind of schedule, and it's damn shame Prathart keeps dumping his nights on you when you're used to a day job." Lyle reasoned lightly. He gritted his teeth, however, bending at the waist so his hands grabbed the arms of my chair and I was forced to lean back so we could maintain a personal distance...although I hardly felt comfortable being this close to my supervisor.

"Don't pity them, Kate."

"I don't pity." I returned quietly.

"You _do_ pity."

"I don't." I argued. "I don't feel sorry for where they've placed themselves."

"And I don't feel comfortable with you going into their cells by yourself either."

"Why not—you do."

Lyle narrowed his eyes at me and said after some hesitation, "I have a little more experience in security measures than you do, Officer Richardson. I have more clearance to do what I do in order to keep this hospital contained. You don't have that clearance—or privilege. I don't want to see you make the same mistake you did with Zsass."

I smiled sarcastically, saying, "I didn't realize you cared so much for me, Lyle. That's sweet."

"I don't like you," Lyle stated. "That much I can't express enough. But the last thing I need to see is for one of my own people to be slaughtered by some scumbag she tried to understand."

I maintained my cynical grin, only to make Lyle roll his eyes.

"You deal with them your way, if it works for you." I breathed lightly. "I'll deal with them my way. So far, it's worked; they are comfortable with me because I give them no reason to become defensive. There's a mutual respect. You'd rather be feared than respected."

He stepped back so I stood out of my chair.

"That doesn't mean I need to choose the same road." I responded coolly.

"You're making a bad choice there, Kate. You'll get yourself hurt. Who knows, you might actually be in one of those cells next to those crazies."

"Living is making a choice," I told him. "You choose one path or the other." I grinned: "You either die ignorant, or you live long enough to experience a new form of living. Madness isn't a burden; it's a blessing."

Lyle quirked his eyebrows at me, befuddled by my phrase. So I touched his shoulder, patting him there and said softly, "When a person get that way, I don't believe they have much else to worry about—including a security guard whose 'security measures' may very well be illegal."

At this, Lyle glared at me. But I simply grinned and walked past him, taking his advice to leave for the day.


	11. An Inconvenience

**I've Been Wrong Before**

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_Author's Note: Thank you for all your reviews! I love waking up to them! XD _

xx

Chapter 11: An Inconvenience

(())

Accounting for the ridiculous traffic that cornered me at every intersection, the infrequent stops of the car in front of me who refused to let me pass, and the ornery public in general, I was undeniably late coming home. While I had intended to arrive, at the latest 6:30, it was actually an hour longer than that.

I opened the door, not bothering to sneak inside, closing it with a click. My hat went on the hat rack; my effects (holster belt, gun, flash light, night stick) laid neatly on the desk under the coat racks behind the door. As I made my way into the bedroom upstairs, I recognized the smell of bleach coming from the bathrooms, windex cleaner from the windows, and lemon scented furniture polish. The smell was aromatic, but I knew it meant one thing.

Gary wasn't happy.

He liked cleanliness, of course, but when _I _could recognize the overt neatness of the two-story house, I knew Gary was definitely unhappy with me. He straightened things up out of habit, but emphatically cleaned when he was disturbed. As I undressed, taking my shirt off and over my head and made my way to the bedroom to get into my night shirt, I wasn't surprised to open the door and see Gary in bed, hands cradling a book while his eyes slowly lifted to look at me.

There were shadows under his eyes, bags shaping there. His hair was unkempt, and I smiled faintly to realize that he looked as if he had been crying. I wasn't smiling because he looked a haggard mess; but this was one of the few times—rare, actually—that I could see what my absence did to Gary. The emotional cage in which he kept diligently locked away could be seen in the phenomenal way he looked at me: there was relief, but there was pain.

I noticed he was wearing a robe—at least he'd bothered to get into pajamas.

"You're late," Gary noted, glancing at his book. "I thought you said you'd be here at six-thirty."

"I did say that." I returned lightly. "But traffic delayed me." I kicked my shoes off, and then later, bent down to put them directly beside Gary's shoes in the closet; he kept his dress shoes so shiny, they embarrassed my own shoe wear. But I smiled; they would not be Gary's shoes if it didn't.

I straightened, turning to see Gary getting out of bed. He seemed exhausted, stepping towards me with a look of condescension.

"Katelynn, I can't keep waiting for you." He muttered. "Your schedule is inconvenient."

"Tell me about it," I agreed.

I moved past him to sit on the bed as I undressed my lower body, all but my underwear and threw my nightshirt over my head, straightening it so I felt comfortable. I glanced from the carpet and met Gary's eyes. In them, I saw uncertainty.

"What?" I asked.

"Have I annoyed you?" Gary asked softly.

I blinked.

"No." I told him, my voice softening. "You haven't annoyed me."

"I must have done something—you are an hour late. That's hardly..."

"Gary, I've had a long night." I told him quietly, moving the covers back so I climbed under them thankfully. I sat with my back against the wall.

"So have I," argued Gary, turning to me. He shook his head: "Have you any idea what it was like lying in that bed alone? I couldn't sleep. I couldn't...Katelynn, aren't you aware what happens to me when my routine is disturbed? You _must _have some idea, you must!"

I stared at him.

Leave a man for twelve hours and suddenly, his eyes are floating in tears and he's breaking out his emotions to you. Never had I seen Gary in this state before, but for some reason, I doubted it was because of my last night's absence. He'd not be so sincere to go that far. I frowned when Gary's eyes hardened.

"I know what happens when your routine is disturbed," I told him. "But I couldn't help that. Prathart called in, and I was available. I'm not going to say 'no'."

Gary scoffed, "You're a wife to a profound Defense Attorney. Why must you feel to leave here at such a ridiculous time to go and baby sit a bunch of prisoners for a man who _obviously _doesn't respect you enough to give you a day's heads up? He never shows up for work, and you are forced to..."

I shot daggers at him as I snapped, "I'm not _forced _to do **anything**."

Gary looked at me uncertainly. Did he want to tangle with me right now, I'd say not, but I could tell he wanted this conversation to continue. So, that being said, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands rubbing my face as an exhaustive sigh emitted from my parted lips.

"I have a job to do," I uttered tiredly. "I have a job to do, and I do it well."

"Then why the lack of promotion?" offered Gary.

I frowned at him: "Don't you remember? Lyle Bolton took that."

"Katelynn, I don't see why you deal with this ridiculous job, and your has-been supervisor. You're my wife, a wife to a profound lawyer. I would have expected this to be a fall-out job where you work a few months and then, hey, go be a doctor."

"I'm not going to be a doctor." I returned. "And this job isn't ridiculous. I'm making a difference."

"You sure are, Katelynn. You sure are. You're making a difference in my schedule," Gary stated. "Because of you, I have to go into work today without any hours of sleep. Do you have any idea what kind of affect that has on my job performance?"

"_I wouldn't know_," I stated sarcastically. "It's not like you tell me every fucking day."

Gary frowned deeply: "That language is rather unnecessary, don't you think?"

I gaped at him.

"Gary, I'm tired. I'm exhausted from working last night, for twelve hours. I don't have the emotional capacity to sit here and argue with you." I stated lightly. I lifted my feet off the floor and scooted by body to the headboard.

"Regardless," Gary stated as if I'd not spoken, "I'm going to work. I'll see you at three-thirty." Gary stepped towards me and leaned forward to give me a kiss.

Reluctantly, I faced him so our kiss met our lips, but it lasted no more than three seconds. Gary looked at me curiously, questioning my lack of response. Perhaps he didn't dwell on it long, assuming I was just tired (and I was) for he smiled encouragingly at me.

"I'm making the deal breaker of a lifetime," Gary said with a smile. "When it happens, we can take that honey moon down to the Isles—just you and me, no one else." He touched my cheek with his hand, caressing my jaw. "You're an inconvenience to me, Katelynn."

_Wow. Ouch, much? _

"But that doesn't mean I don't love you," Gary said lightly.

"Thanks, that means so much to me." I returned sarcastically. "While you're at it, you can tell me you regret marrying me."

"I don't regret that," Gary said. "You're a free spirit—I've known this. I have no regrets in marrying you—it's just a harsh lesson I've come to learn over the few years."

_Damn, that hurts._

"You know," I told Gary, taking his hand from my cheek. "You think you're being endearing, but what you've said to me in the past few minutes are really hurtful things." I sunk into the covers, turning from him: "But you wouldn't know the difference."

I didn't see Gary's reaction, nor did I believe he understood his own fault to the pain in my chest. I wasn't having a heart attack, but in spite it all, I felt unappreciated for my tentativeness towards his needs. I knew I was at fault in being late, but did I need to be called an inconvenience or a harsh lesson? I doubt that.

"Katelynn, I have to go to work."

"Then go," I muttered.

Knowing Gary, I expected him to touch my shoulder in a cold, indifferent way and tell me he loved me but I heard no such movement or whisper. He simply hummed his way out of the bedroom as if I'd given him permission to go to a school trip—and he was just happy to oblige. I shook my head.

_You're an inconvenience to me, Katelynn._

_ It's a harsh lesson I've come to learn over the years._

_ You're an inconvenience to me, Katelynn._

_ It's a harsh lesson I've come to learn over the years._

I frowned dispassionately at the comforter.

'_Well, Kate...Even _**_I'm_**_ at a loss for why you shouldn't start this thing with Joker. At least with him, what you see is what you get. _

I half-smiled at my mind. At least all the voices agreed with me this time.


	12. Knock Before You Enter

**I've Been Wrong Before**

**Chapter Twelve: Knock Before You Enter**

**Author's Note: Hope you all love this ;) **

Gary and I sat in the kitchen for dinner. I had only awoken an hour ago, finding more rest in four hours of sleep than I had felt in years. We were just finishing up (Gary took my plate before I offered to wash them again) and I watched after him with a fool's hope that we would talk about what happened earlier this morning. I deserved an apology for being told I was an inconvenience to him, even if I knew I was—the words hurt, and what hurt more was the way he'd spoken it. It was like he knew this to be a fact and rather than attempting to fix the problem, he'd reluctantly accepted it as a doom. When Gary offered a pleasant smile in my direction, I returned it; when he looked away, I went back to my frowning disposition.

"How was work?" I asked dutifully, knowing he'd have a lot to say about his day.

"Well, it..." Gary began enthusiastically.

Just as he'd spoken, my cell phone was ringing off the hook. I thought it was a missed call until it started ringing again. I shook my head—I had remained in my night shirt, hoping that today would finally be the day when I could stay home, do nothing, and simply banter with my husband about law, politics, moral degradation of society, and all the ways it was helping him win case after case after case. However, I searched for my phone, finding it in my work pants; I took it out and answered it without even looking to see who was calling.

"Richardson," I answered.

"It's Lyle."

I pulled my phone back, looking at the screen, only to realize what the caller said was true. Sometimes, I wished Caller ID would keep me guessing, rather than confirming my suspicions. I placed the phone back on my ear, glancing at Gary, who frowned when I mouthed, "I have to take this."

I remained in the living room while Gary continued washing the dishes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"We have a problem."

"Problem?" I repeated.

I glanced at Gary who was intensely scrubbing the plates; guess who was upset with being interrupted? I rolled my eyes, as my hand drummed on the desk in front of me; it was odd what activities a person did subconsciously while they chatted on the phone: some walked around, others paced. I've even seen some people dance while they're on the phone and not recollect themselves to having done so...odd.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I was distracted," I told Lyle after realizing he'd gone on talking while my reverie withheld my attention. "What did you say?"

Lyle breathed a sigh of exasperation.

"We're having trouble with a priso...uh...a patient."

I smirked. It must be really important for Lyle to refer to these people as 'patients' instead of his favorite term. I bit the inside of my cheek subconsciously unaware of doing so and asked him what kind of situation needed my assistance.

"It's actually two situations."

"Two?" I asked. "What's the first?"

"Prathart called in again."

I rolled my eyes, saying, "Surely there are others you can depend on. Dimitri, Paul, Charles—they're on call to work too, you know."  
"True, but this is different."

"Different? How is it different?" I returned. I glanced at Gary again who was watching me intently. "I'm in the middle of something, Bolton."

Gary smiled at me appreciatively.

"Well, that brings me to number 2."

"What's problem number 2?"

"Patient 4479."

"What about him?"  
"We're trying to search his cell," Lyle explained—I could hear his unwanted irritation coming out just as he said the word 'trying'. The idea of him unable to get into any prisoner's cell must be irritating the snot out of him—god, did I love that idea more than I should. I smirked in spite of it.

"'_Trying_'?" I repeated, hoping Bolton would suffer for his ill attempts to do his job.

"Don't try to humor me, Richardson. I'm not in the mood."  
"So what's wrong with him?"

"He's refusing to let us in."  
"Refusing? You have your 'security measures', Lyle." I reasoned skeptically. "I figure with all the power in the world, you'd be able to do it."

"He says he doesn't want any of us in his room," Lyle stated.

From the background of his line, I heard one of the officers yell, "Stand back, Prisoner" and rather clearly, I could hear Joker return sarcastically, "Really? I don't even think you're trying!" And his familiar giggle was a damn straight confirmation of his presence.

Evidently, Lyle stood directly in the hallway or in front of the room belonging to Patient 4479.

I glanced at my watch on my left wrist: 6:30.

"How many guards do you have?" I asked.

"Doesn't make a difference how many on night shift I have. I have to search Joker's cell and he's adamant about only having you check it. I don't know why—he's never done this before."

"Joker's an unpredictable catch, Bolton." I returned lightly. "He's not going to behave and submit like the other fish you catch in your net."

"Stop with the fish metaphors. Come in, Richardson." Lyle ordered. "I need you here with me—if just for the first hour of this shift and the last hour, just to check these people's cell."

"I thought the Joker was your only problem."

"No," Lyle submitted gruffly. "I've had some disagreements among the others."

"Who else?"  
"Carver."

"Car_t_er." I corrected.

"No, _Car__**v**__er._" Lyle recorrected. "He's also refusing."

"So power on through."

"Stop arguing with me, Richardson. I need you here. Can you come in?"

I glanced behind me to see Gary looking disappointed. While looking at him, I said to Lyle, "How long do you need me there?"

"As long as I can have you," Lyle returned honestly. To the others surrounding him, he shouted: "_Don't go in there, O'Brien! Are you fucking nuts!_"

_"He's getting on my nerves!"_

_ "I don't care what he's getting on—you keep out that fucking cell, Cecil. I shit you not!" _Lyle growled. To me, he said irritably, "How long will you be?"

"'Bout twenty minutes," I said.

In the background, I heard shouting between Cecil O'Brien and Ricky Durkes. In response to their demands, Joker was giggling. Apparently, he was having the time of his life. Why would I interrupt that? Then just as soon as I had thought it, I heard Lyle shout, "DAMN IT CECIL! I told you not to go near him! CECIL!"

Then there was scuffling.

"LYLE!" I shouted, "What's happening!"

"Richardson, get down here. Joker—don't do anything! Don't hurt him! Cecil, damn it; you, idiot!"

Farther in the back, I heard Joker's muffled voice (most likely from the line itself, not a restraint): "I never liked intruders, par-tic-u-larly you, Cecil."

Lyle's voice commanded: "_Joker, don't hurt him. He's an ignorant fuck, but trust me; he's not even worth your time." _

Joker's voice, sounding skeptical: "Ooh, _now_ you wanna play—How's the wife, hm?"

Lyle said to me, "Get down here, Richardson. We have a hostile situation—as quick as you can. And be quick about it."

I could hear Lyle and Joker talking, most likely about me. Joker, asking if that was really me on the phone Lyle was talking to, or if he was just playing games. If that was the case, Joker returned, then he could play all kinds of games with Cecil O'Brien; some were not age appropriate.

At that moment, I pulled off my night shirt, snatched my gear, tied down my effects and walked out the door. Gary was shouting at me from behind, saying we had plans and thanks to me, they were being ruined once more. But I cared little to hear his complaints—I thrust my engine into gear, and sped down the highway like a lunatic.

I hated Cecil, and I mean I _hated_ the bastard. But the idea of him being slaughtered was just a little too much for me to handle. No one deserved that kind of death, not even Victor Zsass...

_Okay, maybe Victor. _

_(())_

My badge slid over the entry section as I pushed through the gates, waiting no time to enter. Half my gut was sucked in to slide through but it did boost my confidence to know that I was able to get through such a small, tight space. I grinned in spite of the situation at hand and then I heard my phone ringing: "_I came in like wrecking ball, I never hit so hard in—_"

"Richardson."

"How far?" Lyle snapped.

"I'm at the gates."

I heard Joker's clear drawl, "_I'm starting to doubt you, Bolton._"

"I have her," Lyle told him coldly. "Here."

I could hear the background easily. Lyle placed me on speaker phone.

"Speak, Richardson. Cecil's life depends on it." Lyle stated calmly.

I rolled my eyes, speaking without thinking of what I was saying: "I'd hate to be the cause of _that_ happy result."

Joker giggled at my response.

"Richardson..."

I passed through the lobby, smiling at Cullson who looked at me strangely, then I ran up the stairs, halfway falling on my face when I slid on that extra coat of wax. I'd have to congratulate Cullson on making this place extra shiny if ever I remembered. I jumped three stairs at a time, risking my clumsiness, and pushed through the doors with a hope that no one was about to go in the opposite direction—else, their face would look strangely the same material texture as the door.

The nurses I saw pointed in the direction of the hall, expecting me. After I keyed in my number, and the machine processed my thumb print, I entered the hall and saw Lyle holding a phone to his ear while I held a phone to mine.

"I'm here," I said.

"Good," Lyle returned.

I smiled at him, stating, "No. I'm right here."

Lyle looked from his phone to me and sighed with relief. He immediately looked ahead into the room from which he was across, holding his hands out as a cautionary procedure. I made a light jog into his direction and saw Joker holding a gun—most likely Cecil's—to the latter's head. Joker smirked at me when I came into his sights.

"All this because he wants you to search his cell," Lyle stated snidely. He glanced at me curiously when I stepped towards Joker, whose grin widened when I held out my hand, palm open.

"Give it to me." I said. "Please."

Joker shrugged, throwing Cecil forward and then tossing the gun to me. He smiled when I dismantled it, handing two parts of it to Cecil who had clearly pissed himself—that would stain his pants, definitely.

"Never take your gun with you," I chided. "Those are basics."

"Good," Lyle said, "Now we can search his cell."

Joker sighed pointedly: "Learned nothing, huh, Bolton?" He placed his hands on the door frame, leaning forward and grinned when Cecil, Scott Pritchard, Ricky Durkes, and Lyle each began to raise their guns to him, in any case he stepped out of his cell. That would be declared an attempt to escape, which would just make his stay here tighter with security.

"I don't like you," Joker told Lyle; he stepped back, gesturing to his room in general: "I actually hate your guts—and that's saying something, considering I'm a real easy-going guy." He smiled at me and said to Lyle, "I only want her."

"Why her." Lyle demanded.

I raised my eyebrows at him, surprised by his protective (And maybe possessive) tone.

Joker threw his hand up in the air saying carelessly, "I like her. What other reason could I have?"

I didn't turn my back on the patient, regarding my safety more important than a mistaken trust. To Lyle, I said, "Let me search the cell, Bolton. It's why you dragged me here, isn't it?"

"Actually..." Lyle began to say otherwise.

Joker frowned past my shoulder at Lyle. The glare was dangerous, and I saw it meant murder. If Lyle entered that cell, he'd not be coming out. I glanced at Lyle, saying pointedly, "I'm already here. I might as well."

"Fine," said Lyle. "We'll search the others. Ricky, you stay here with..."

Joker interrupted, "Atatata. No..." He stepped forward saying, "Just her. Alone."

"That's not happening," Scott hissed.

"Oh it's happening," Joker replied confidently. He looked directly at me: "Isn't it, Ka**t**e?"

There was a beat drop in a hallway, a cold silence that one couldn't even slice with a knife. Not a lot of people called me 'Kate', and I gave them permission, they were normally deemed as friends. So Joker's pronunciation of my name seemingly shocked Lyle, for he touched my shoulder, pulling me back.

"Richardson—"

"I got this," I told him, brushing his hand off me. "Do your job. And I'll do mine. I'll be in and out."

Lyle glared at Joker, mistrusting him with every bone in his body. However, Joker just glared right back at him. I glanced between these two.

_Too much testerone in one room. _

"Fine," Lyle growled. He looked at me. "Is your gun loaded?"

"Yeah, of course it is." I said.

"Use it if necessary."

Joker sighed, "Bring your guns and knives inside if you want—whatever uh makes you feel _safe_." He shrugged and sat in his bed, legs crossed underneath him while he smiled at me; his added response was spoken in a relaxed lightened tone: "I'd hate to make you feel _unwelcome_, Officer." He smirked at me.

He lowered his head so his eyes watched me carefully, the crooked grin plastered on his face as Lyle debated with himself about allowing this sort of thing to happen. Lyle frowned, made unhappy by Joker's invitation; meanwhile, I felt all kinds of warmth surging through my body.

_Attracted to dangerous situations, indeed. You should put that on a dating promo. This will certainly get you a lot of matches._

Lyle touched my shoulder, saying, "Ten minutes, Richardson. In. Out."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I dismissed.

Lyle closed the door after me. Dutifully, I kept the gun in my hand, but I wasn't aiming on using it at all. With my back to Lyle, I placed the gun in my hand, putting the safety on. Joker noticed, and his eyebrows raised with impressed surprise.

"The only time I ever take out a gun," I uttered lightly, "is when I'm going to use it." I placed it in its holstered pocket. "Personally, I don't feel like having target practice."

"As if I'd be able to _move_ anywhere." Joker returned sarcastically, tapping the wall with two knuckles indicative of his cage.

I started my search of the drawers, feeling under the clothes, glancing under the drawers themselves, and then underneath the dresser. My hands slid down the sides, checking for anything out of placement, then I glanced behind it to be sure nothing was hidden. Joker watched me with an intense gaze, but for some reason, I felt he wasn't watching my ass...he was just..._watching_ me.

"That was an escalated situation just to see me again," I started conversationally as I walked to his bed.

Joker looked up at me, his scars elongating when he cracked a very wide grin.

"Actually, it was a coincidence." Joker offered. "But I told you..."

"You did." I stated. "No one but me."

"Exactly." Joker returned.

I knelt on my knees, glancing underneath the bed. Nothing but dry lint and dust bunnies. I glanced up to him when I felt a different gaze—something changed about his staring. When I caught his eyes, I was made very uncomfortable. He grinned attractively at me.

"You're awfully quiet compared to last night," Joker stated. "Having homely issues?"

"None I haven't had before," I returned vaguely.

"You know, one day when the apes are gone, we might have a pleasant conversation about your deteriorating marriage." Joker drawled.

I got to my knees, glaring at him.

"My marriage isn't deteriorating."

"Of course it isn't," Joker patronized. "How silly of me."

He giggled when I glared at him.

"Why else would you be here?" Joker offered, gesturing to me with an open palm.

"You forced Bolton to call me in," I responded. "That's not by my own hand."

"I wasn't talking about the ape calling you in," Joker returned immediately. "I'm talking about why you happily come into my cell, believing—for some reason—I won't do the same thing I've done to Cecil." He jumped out of bed, surprising me with his agility; I sprung back, and he grinned at my reaction.

"Ah," Joker purred, "Not _quite_ so complacent as I thought. Mm, you're full of _surprises_."

"So are you," I returned politely.

"Flattery will get you places," Joker said smoothly. "But I don't think I have to tell you that; I'm sure you've learned enough from Bolton."

"I've learned _nothing_ from him." I hissed.

Joker raised his eyebrows in amusement and said with his hands in front of him, "Ooh, you have me all wrong; I didn't mean that to be sexual."

"You inferred it."

"Wrong, Kate—I _implied_ it. Therefore, you inferred." Joker corrected.

"I don't have time for grammatical corrections."

"Then check the clocks again, Ka**t**e, because you just had one," Joker returned quickly.

"The search is finished," I stated plainly.

"And with eight minutes to spare," Joker drawled.

I didn't realize I was being cornered until my back lightly tapped against the door and the Joker was standing before me with his hands on the metal, trapping me within his arms. Joker observed me momentarily, cracking another grin.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" I questioned.

"Not going for the gun, huh?" Joker asked, looking at me pointedly. "Can't wager you'd shoot me?"

"I'd be able to shoot you," I promised wholeheartedly. "I'm not going to though."

"Because you like being here." Joker offered.

"No—I'm too tired to think of cleaning up the mess your dead body would leave in the result of my shooting you," I stated.

Joker narrowed his eyes at me. I lost my muchness right then, feeling my legs reduce to jelly. A small breeze could blow me over if it weren't for the fact that Joker was right against me, having closed the distance between us.

"In what way do I even attract you?" I asked what had been on my mind since yesterday.

"Oh, Kate, how I love you. Let me count the ways." Joker paraphrased something that sounded like Shakespeare.

I stared at him, a bit flabbergasted.

"A little culture doesn't hurt anyone," Joker returned when I stared at him incredulously. He put his hand on my neck, his fingers grabbing the underlining of my jaw. "And to answer your question, Ka**t**e, I go back to what we spoke of before—a man like me can sense a woman like you; you give off an air of neglect."

"But I'm not neglected."

Joker sent me a skeptical glance that made me inadvertently smile. I had never seen him look so doubtful of my response and it caused a small part of me to laugh.

"Not neglected," Joker repeated as if he was trying out my newfound mantra. "I have a _very_ hard time believing tha**t**."

I said nothing to this, considering I was currently at a loss for words. His hand remained on my neck, owing to the need to hold me against the wall. I watched him uncertainly. What the hell was happening—I didn't know until he moved his left hand over my shirt, pulling the well-placed hem out of my pants so he touched my stomach with his palm.

Skin on skin contact.

_Holy fucking __macadamia__ nuts._

Joker smirked when he glanced down at my bare skin.

"Ooh, looks like you and I have the same fighting style." Joker purred. He ran his fingers over several light scars that dotted my abdomen and hips—knife wounds, bullet scars. The result of constant run-ins with people who were desperately trying to hold onto life while swimming above life's proverbial waters. Joker's eyelids lowered in what I assumed was something of newfound infatuation.

"You can really take a hit, Officer." Joker drawled. "Gives me a lot more to think about during those uh..." He leaned forward so his lips were just centimeters from mine. "Lonely..." He moved closer. "Nights..."

"RICHARDSON! CECIL, OPEN THAT FUCKING DOOR!"

Joker rolled his eyes, smirking at me: "Isn't that always the way? You get in the mood and company shows up."

I smiled halfheartedly at his comment. Then, quite suddenly, I was pulled out of the room by Lyle, who forced the door closed before Joker even had a thought of walking out—not that he did. He simply sat in his bed again, grinning the entire time.

Lyle looked at me, a look of worry furrowed on his eyebrows and stressed his gaze.

"Katelynn, are you okay? Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine," I returned, dazed.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. I'm great." I stated.

Cecil shook his head, "He's a mad motherfucker."

I smiled at Cecil and said, "I would be too if you went into my cell without my say-so."

Cecil opened his mouth to speak but Lyle interrupted him.

"Shut up, O'Brien. You don't have room to talk." Lyle stated. He looked at me: "Prathart ain't coming in, Richardson. And O'Brien and Scott are already in overtime...so..."

"Yes." I stated tiredly.

"Yes what?"

"I'll stay over." I told him.

Lyle grinned with relief as he said, "You're a trooper."

"Oh, don't worry. It's my pleasure." I stated.

As Lyle walked away to get a cup of coffee with Cecil and Scott, I turned on my heel to see Joker grinning at me still. He raised his hand as if to wave at me, but instead, he wiggled his fingers in a humorous good bye. I rolled my eyes at him and Joker laughed with unhindered amusement.

In spite of it, I felt a very noticeable wetness in my panties that wasn't there before.

_My pleasure, indeed._


	13. Master

**I've Been Wrong Before**

Author's Note: _First off, I'm happy I've received more reviews! Always great to hear from you lovely people. Second, I know I promised daily updates (per my profile) but I do have a valid excuse: I've moved into my new apartment with my sister! :D So it's been hectic. Hopefully, this makes up for it!_

Note: I edited a few grammatical errors in Chapter 12, nothing life-changing, but it does help with a few awkward pauses such as misplacement of 'him', 'you', and other stuff. I read over these things three to four times—aloud and in my brain—and still miss a few.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Master

"What do you _mean _you're staying over!"

I frowned as I glanced at my cell, placed on speaker phone. By the eccentric exclamation, one might have thought Gary was standing in the room with me, not twenty minutes away. In spite of the distance between us, I could see the man with a phone in one hand, yelling at it while the other hand polished a bit of wooden furniture. I shook my head when his voice nearly carried throughout the entire break room; I wasn't surprised that he'd react in such a dramatic way, considering that I was used to his panic attacks during unexpected moments—such as my having to stay for twelve hours at work when I was technically scheduled to be off.

I finally found the patience to call him just before I started my rounds at seven thirty (had to do them later to quiet down the patients who were still hyped about the Joker VS Lyle incident). Picked up that phone, gave him the wonderful news, and then you're pretty much up to date on the whole enchilada.

"You're off today."

"Yeah," I confirmed. "But there's no one to work tonight—Prathart called in."

"Lyle said he only wanted you for the first hour."  
"Well, clearly, it's become twelve."

"That's not what you told me an hour ago."

"Well," I replied with attempted patience, "That was an _hour_ ago."

"Clearly, so, Katelynn—I have an effing clock in front of me."

I glanced at the phone with some impressive feat; that was the closest Gary ever came to saying 'fucking', and a part of me kind of liked it. _Come on, Gary, show me that rough side; I know there's a dirty little mouth somewhere in you. _

But I had no such luck.

"Katelynn," Gary stated with a tone of exhaustion (I could practically see him running his hand, painfully stressed, through his hair), "I had a whole evening planned. Just the two of us—I had dinner, I had..."

"I'm sure it would have been a lovely dinner," I returned smoothly. "But we can do it another—"

"No!" snapped Gary. "I wanted to do it today. Tonight was the night I promised."

"Well, not everything goes according to plan," I told him gently.

Gary returned coldly, "Of course not—thanks to you."

_Nice little wasp sting, there._

"I'm glad I can always count on you to speak your mind honestly," I stated pointedly. "Even if it does hurt."

"Katelynn, I have a whole roast in the oven, made just for us."

"Then save it for left overs."

"Can't you find someone else to stay there with those freaks?"

"They're not freaks," I retorted coldly. "They are just different from other people."

"And what happened with Joker and Cecil, huh? Was _that_ just because he's different?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you," I retorted unhappily. "You've insulted me, you've undermined my job, this conversation is over, Gary."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is," I responded, glaring at my phone.

"It isn't."

"Unless you plan on putting a hand over my mouth, gag me, or leave me speechless," I stated coldly, "I'm saying it is over."

"I'm not arguing with you over the phone, Katelynn. This is a conflict that must be resolved at home."

"No, this conflict can be solved immediately. I'm doing it right now." I replied, and then I hung up on him.

Just three seconds later, the phone was ringing again. I slid my thumb to the right, answering the call. I put him on speaker phone again.

"Katelynn, that was rude."

"No more rude than your foul comment about me ruining your plans. Don't you think it's a bit underhanded to say that I _always_ ruin them?" I retorted, throwing away the wrapper to what have been a vending machine honey bun. I placed the phone off speakerphone, placing it to my ear so as to walk through the hospital, beginning my rounds.

"You ruined them tonight."

"Because I had to _work_," I hissed.

"You didn't have to go to work—what you do there isn't all that important."

_Pile it on, Gary, just keep piling it on. You're making this so much easier._

_ "_Great," I responded—I had a hard time keeping the pain out of my voice. "Then maybe I should come home, leave these people to their workload. Since I'm not making a difference, maybe I should unleash all these 'freaks' and lend them my address. Then, Gary, _then_ when they're fucking eating out your intestines while you're still fucking breathing, _then_ maybe you'll see that my job actually matters."

"Katelynn, you're upset. It's illogical to argue when you're upset."

"I'll fucking be upset when I'm upset—and don't you dare say I'm upset."

I walked up the stairs to level 2...I'm sorry: 'walked' isn't the term. It was a very hard, brisk walk. I could feel my heels strike the concrete tile so harshly because I was walking so angrily. When I got to the hall on level 2, I was greeted by a few new nurses (the past few were off tonight), and I briefly acknowledged Lori Heart—she was one of the few competent, soft-hearted but hard-working nurses I knew.

My mind was back to Gary when he scoffed, "I keep telling you to quit that stupid job, Katelynn. I make more than enough to get us by."

"I don't care if you were the president," I snarled. "I'm not leaving this job; I'm making a difference."

"Katelynn, can you please come home so we can eat this roast? It's already getting cold; I don't even have enough platters to put all this on, plus, Katelynn, I had a movie rented to watch this evening. You prefer that insane place over my..."

"At this moment, Gary, at this _moment_, I don't want to be around you."

"Why not?"

I glanced at my phone incredulously.

"Really?" I said skeptically. "You _really_ don't know?"

"Katelynn, it is not my fault when you become this irrational."

"Good bye, Gary."

"We're not finishing talking."

"Well, good—you can keep talking to your fucking phone but I won't be on the line; I have a job to do."

"But your job isn't important. Mine is—I'm a lawyer; I have a meeting tomorrow and another tomorrow night, and if you can't..."

"**Good bye_, GARY_**." I shouted over his pointless conversation. I hung up.

I stopped at the doors that led to the hallway of Level 2. Scan my badge, put in that thumb print, blah blah blah—I'd have figured the machine knew me well by now as I was here for the past three nights. Surely, _surely_, it would have figured out that I was going to be here, seemingly, for the next few if Prathart continued this ridiculous habit of his.

The doors unlocked.

I pushed through them, allowing them to lock behind me before any of the nurses could tell me not to go through without them. But I knew I wouldn't get that reaction from Lori as I'd received from James Kyle.

Lori was a tall woman, skinny, short hair cut, graying roots that originally had been the color of yellow blonde. She was sweet and caring, and had an addiction to movie theater popcorn and Diet Pepsi. She and I saw each other regularly on the day shift, so it surprised me to see her on the nights; maybe she'd gotten the same phone call as I had received...probably less fun though.

In addition to her humorous personality, Lori knew I could hold my own.

I passed the patients of Level 2, unintentionally ignoring them. My mind suffered at the anger brought on by my dispassionate husband. While I firmly believed in the "Work is work, home is home" mantra, I still had a hard time shaking off Gary's words.

_Your job isn't that important._

_ You're an inconvenience to me._

_Of course not...thanks to you._

_ You're always ruining my plans._

_ You're an inconvenience to me._

I didn't stop walking until I arrived in front of Joker's cell. I glanced through the window, narrowing my eyes to see Joker lying on his bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His hands were on his chest, twiddling his thumbs, with a great big smile planted on his face that stretched his scars, teeth showing. I figured he was dwelling over the past confrontation he had with Lyle, and reminiscing the moment, then the result of getting his way.

Thanks to that oversight, I figured Joker would be getting his way a lot more often.

"Hey, Katie Baby."

I turned around to see Victor. He was against the door, hands around the visible bars behind the metallic-wired, bullet-proof window. Seeing no opposition of any kind, he probably found it interesting that I was here, yet again. I glared at him the moment I realized his presence, so he smiled with aloofness in response.

"What will people say?" Victor asked.

"About?" I questioned brutally.

"Us—you're up here an _awful_ lot."

"I'm not up here to see you."

"Then you're here to see some other lucky brute," Victor drawled. He shrugged a shoulder, smiling at me: "Course, I wouldn't mind making another nick on your throat. I love seeing my artwork on you—suits your beautiful neck wonderfully. In fact, I counted it by the way."

I cocked my head to side at his ambiguous inclination, so to prove a point, he placed his arm on the window where I could see it, and he pointed to a distinctive tally mark on the back of his elbow. It was healed after two years, for save the faint scar. I sighed.

"I'd come up with a scathing retort about your deeply disturbed psychosis," I seethed, "But I have a feeling you already know you're a fucking psycho."

Victor raised his eyebrows at me in surprise, but after realizing he'd been insulted, he frowned and tried to shake the bars, attempting to get out...unsuccessfully. I turned my back on him, then keyed in the numbers to get into Joker's cell, wordlessly entering, allowing it to close behind me without looking back. Joker didn't react to my intrusion as great as I'd expected him to—what, with Lyle and Cecil's trespassing and the result of it having been dramatically played, I figured the same thing would happen.

Nope. He simply glanced from the wall his bed was placed against and then looked at me with curiosity. Aside from the passing eyes, he didn't even move.

"I didn't expect to see you until a _lot_ later," Joker drawled lightly, smirking on his own behalf. "Thought you were gonna be here for only an hour initially and at the last?"

"Plans changed."

Joker heard my unbridled frustration that I intentionally revealed for he glanced at me suddenly, eyebrows raised and his mouth formed in a half-smile, which made me guess he enjoyed hearing my frustration leak out of my system. Joker sat up when I approached him, placing his feet on the tile but never getting up; I realized he was barefoot.

"Plans change, sure," Joker returned knowingly, "But not _yours_." He made a downward gesture towards me, as if it playing out that I was on a tight schedule.

"Mine always change." I stated unhappily. Bitterly, I added, "To no fault of my own."

Joker shrugged as if this meant nothing to him, responding, "Plans always change, Pet."

I felt my face grow extremely hot.

_ Pet? _

_Ohh, that sounds..._

_ naughty. _

"I'm not your pet." I stated, folding my hands in front of me.

"Of course you're not," Joker patronized, standing to his feet. He stepped three paces towards me, but this time, I held my ground. A foot over me, he had, but I still looked up at him with a harshness I somehow was able to muster.

"You're not a tamed shrew, are you, Kate? Hm?" Joker stated, smiling at me. "No, no, no, that would be too simple, too _easy_ to handle. Maybe that's why your husband can't seem to keep you on a tight enough leash, unaware of just how **_exotic_**his little beloved truly is."

I stared at him. My stomach dropped three levels when I heard his words slither from his mouth as if they were dressed in the finest silk. He spoke in a low voice, a tone that I found both deeply manipulative per my situation, and yet, I wanted to believe his flattering comments were to dilute my seething fire into ashen consolation...but I highly doubted it. For what he caused in my mind was a diluted sense of self-worth...

_Finally, someone realizes I'm not that easy to control._

_ Finally, someone sees that I'm more than just a pretty face._

_ Finally..._

My logic kicked in: _Do you really think he's comforting you, Kate? _

In the back of my mind, I knew he was manipulating me. In my heart, I knew his words were empty boxes, decorated with honey-dew words, and curtains of beautiful provocation. I knew the Joker to be a charmer when he wanted, but his true mask was the one he currently wore: scarred, demonic, and overtly out of his skull.

All of this profound perception of his character somehow became distorted though when he placed his hand on my jaw, his thumb on one side of my mandible with the other digits grasping the opposite. He forced me to look into his eyes, for I'd been unintentionally staring past him at a small crevice in his wall.

"You didn't come here just to tell me your garden has been toiled," Joker told me pointedly. His voice was serious, and I took him like so.

"You're right," I uttered. "I didn't."

"No plans with your husband?" Joker offered. "No pretty flowers on the table or fancy candlelit dinners?"

"No; I had to come and work here." I told him, glaring at him pointedly to remind him that it was mainly his fault.

"Surprise, surprise," Joker returned, failing to suppress a chuckle. "I'm starting to wonder whether you come here for the job, or because Bolton asks you to."

I narrowed my eyes at him: "I don't like Bolton."

"Mm," Joker uttered, "But that uh doesn't mean Bolton doesn't like _you_."

I stared at him incredulously.

Joker let go of my jaw, dropping his hand to his side. He smiled and sat down on the bed, looking up at me with some amusement.

"Trust me, Kate. Your supervisor is a cow, not some..."

"You say he's a hero," I threatened quietly, "And I will beat you with my flash light without a second's hesitation."  
Joker chuckled darkly: "I would let you, if that is what you need."

I stared at him again, disarmed by his response. When he witnessed my reaction, he smirked deeply at me—I could feel that attraction in my loins stirring once more. To prove a point that I certainly felt in the mood to damage something beautiful, I took my flash light off my belt. Joker glanced at me in a good humor, even as I stepped towards him. He leaned back on the bed, supported by his elbows when I moved between his legs.

"Aren't _we _feeling a little bold?" Joker inquired.

I looked at him, acknowledging his challenge. I thought about a few things before I unhooked my belt from my waist, throwing it aside. I thought of Gary and the 'wonderful' marriage in which I was currently placed. I thought of how nothing bad had happened to me, even while I'd been a resident in Gotham from the start of my childhood. I thought of all that could happen if this current event took place...and strangely, I couldn't give a fuck.

"I don't care what you say to me," I told him.

Joker looked at me once more, impressed by my odd behavior. The gun, the flashlight, and night stick remained on the floor as I moved between his legs, placing my hands to either side of his lap while I leaned forward; he smirked when I was two inches from kissing him.

"I don't care what you _do_ to me," I uttered quietly.

I shoved my mouth onto his without the slightest bit of predictability, offering not even a hint of what I wanted until my lips doubled efforts to break through his and slide my tongue between them to entice his own. I felt him laugh quietly, but then I broke the kiss, and Joker looked at me with sheepish victory.

"I don't give a damn what we do," I stated quietly. I felt the rebellion in my loins, and knowledge of it made me wet.

Joker emitted a chuckle from his throat that was deeper than I had witnessed as he said, "Not exactly the appropriate conduct expected out of a security guard that likes her job so much."

"Right now," I said, "I'm not your guard."

"Then _what_ are you?" Joker asked, curious to my answer.

I knelt down between his legs, my hands on his thighs while I looked up at him, smiling.

"Whatever you want me to be." I responded willfully.

Joker smirked: "Ooh, you've got a silver tongue your_self_, Officer." He leaned forward, placing his hands on my jaw. "Don't worry, Pet...Forget about the lawyer."

I looked at him with renewed lust when he grinned devilishly as he purred, "You have a new master now."


	14. He Likes 'Em Fighting

**I've Been Wrong Before**

Author's Note: Damn, you all must have liked Chapter Thirteen! I've never seen the reviews increase like that since I wrote _Games That Daddies Play_. Phew! Well, wait no longer! XD

–

Chapter Fourteen: He Likes 'Em Fighting

_You have a new master now._

His hands moved behind my head, fingers coiling through my hair, grabbing handfuls. They moved my face towards his, and the distance between us was gone; I was introduced to this illicit affair with a brief kiss and was a bit surprised to feel only his lips against mine. I felt his scars on my cheeks, their rough texture a polar contrast to my soft skin. It didn't unhinge me entirely, only shocking me for the tiniest second. I didn't need a lot of motivation to want him even more.

I stood to my feet. My lips parted to invite him in, and he obliged. Joker's tongue slid over my bottom lip, enticing. Many times I'd seen his habit of him licking his scars, a small tic that not a lot of people would notice, but it had a sole affect on me. I smiled when the same tongue that traced his scars in thought grazed between my lips, exploring my mouth momentarily before finding its matching dancer.

_Don't forget about Gary. Your husband, remember?_

The thought made me hesitate to respond. Joker evidently felt my reluctance...his hands in my hair pulled at the roots, bringing me back to a harsh reality. I could scarcely believe the situation in which I had placed myself...but _damn_ did that hair-pulling hurt...but in a good way.

I opened my eyes—for I'd closed them to become involved in this odd make-out scene—to see that Joker was smirking at me; the kiss was broken, but the heat of my rebellion was rising in my neck, in my chest...below my belt.

"Having second thoughts?" Joker surmised knowingly.

"Only a few." I muttered.

"You can always turn back," Joker offered.

I smiled bitterly, saying, "We are well beyond that point, don't you think?"  
Joker chuckled in amusement: "Your words, not mine."

Saying so, he released my hair, placing them palm out to me as if he was offering me invisible presents. Upon doing so, I sent him a look of curiosity.

"You can handcuff me, if that would make you feel more in _control_." Joker stated, smirking when I quirked my eyebrows at him.

I felt that this was a reference to my husband. I couldn't believe that he was comparing me to Gary. Maybe it was a good thing, morally, for my morality was suffering greatly. However, being that he was the last person I wanted to discuss, I couldn't help but feel a little annoyed.

In ode to my hot temper, I growled pushing Joker on the bed. He let out a breathy laugh of what I guessed was both entertainment and surprise, not having expected my sudden lash of frustration. I didn't waste time in straddling his waist, looking down at him with annoyance as I blocked his actions of returning the favor; his wrists were pinned to the bed by my hands as I glared at him.

"Don't talk about him," I ordered. "I'm not in the mood to discuss him."

"Ohh, I love that temper of yours..." Joker purred. "Ever thought about getting anger management classes? I hear they really help with your anger issues." He smiled up at me, not affected at all by feminine restraints. He was _enjoying_ being manhandled by a woman—maybe that was his intention all along.

"I don't have an anger issue," I returned coldly.

"Really?" Joker responded. "You _do _realize who you're dealing with, don't you?"

I was about to point out that _he_ was the one on his back until he turned the tables on me; I grunted with the impact of being thrown off the bed, groaning as I looked at the floor with some disgruntled annoyance; I shouldn't had been so arrogant with my small victory—it cost me a nice face plant to the tile floor. Before I realized what was happening, I could feel Joker behind me; he sat on my butt, his thighs straddling either side of my hips. When I began an attempt to throw him off by picking myself off the floor, he lowered his frame along my back, snatching my wrists and placed them far from me that I was unable to gain any leverage.

I grunted again when my face smacked the floor once more.

"Don't be taken in by a small victory, Officer," Joker drawled. I felt his mouth brush along the back of my left ear. His right hand left my wrist to pull my hair to one side so I felt his lips on my neck; I shivered at the contact, but how tantalizing it felt when his tongue licked the nape.

"A lot of pigs get their knickers handed to them just because they celebrate a small victory—a small battle won in comparison to a great war." Joker continued in his mentoring drawl. I glanced up to see his hands on my wrists, their grip vice-like but I liked the restraint.

I couldn't move under him; escape was futile.

But I didn't want to escape. When I wiggled under him to gain any type of leverage to get out from underneath him, I heard him moan quietly—it had been involuntarily.

"For a small woman, you wriggle an awful lot," Joker pointed out.

"I'm not wriggling," I stated.

"Well, _now_ you're not." Joker stated. "Kinda disappointed—it was starting to feel really good."

I let out a snort of laughter—call me senile, but for some reason, the small childish tone he'd taken on kind of made me feel a little silly. In that silly feeling, it required me to laugh it off. However, the silliness wore off when his lower frame partook in a small push against my own. Despite the material of my slacks and his patient uniform, I could feel a distinct hard-on against the back of my innermost thigh.

"I dare you to struggle now." Joker challenged; his voice was a depth I felt vibrate in my chest, causing a great part of my nerves to fluster—I was a big knot of nerves, but I could feel most of them below my waist, right between my legs.

This talking—whatever it was called—certainly had my loins a-burning. Despite my will to forget about him, I couldn't help but compare (or rather, contrast) the difference between this erotic (and simultaneously intimidating) situation to the normal, nightly 9pm missionary routines I had with my husband. I supposed in retrospect...

"Kate."

I turned my head and saw him looking at me with an expression I was both admittedly scared and excited to see. His eyes were smoldering, a borderline between oncoming irritation and sexual frustration. He wanted my undivided attention, and who was I thinking about? I could see Joker's perspective on this one.

"What?" I asked.

"Struggle for me."

I believed my eyebrows disappeared momentarily when they raised as high as they could go in my surprise. Did I hear him correctly?

"What...?"

Joker rolled his eyes. His hands left my wrists to later be felt on my hips; his fingers grabbed me with a brutal grip that made me wince in pain but I kind of welcomed this new sense of heightened pain...but it felt good...what the hell was wrong with me, really? When I began to struggle to get away from this new found painful pleasure, I heard Joker utter, "Atta girl."

Despite his request to struggle and escape, I found it harder to do so.

"I don't even think you're trying," Joker chastised, but despite the tone, I could practically hear him as if he was smiling.

Inside, I found my rage—remembering the hurtful things Gary said to me, remembering how my most-deserved job promotion had been given to Lyle instead of me, remembering how I was not good enough to become a police officer in Gordon's unit, so I had to conform to Arkham Asylum instead. Within me, I found a rage I could always rely on, so using it, I growled angrily, pushing Joker off me.

Surprised by my initiative, Joker giggled as he was thrown off me. This time, I didn't take it as a small victory. Instead, I saw a window of opportunity. I snatched his wrists as he'd done to me, pinning them on either side of his head. I sat on his groin—feeling to my bewilderment and sudden lustful foreboding that he was harder and more erect than when he was on me.

I figured out, just then, that Joker liked them not only feisty, but fighting. Joker liked to be manhandled just as he liked to do the manhandling. I didn't dwell on these thoughts longer than I cared to as I meant well to be focused, not distracted by my ever deepening reverie. I looked down at him, glaring in spite of my victory.

"I like the foreplay just as much as anyone," Joker pointed out, "but I'm doubting this rage is aimed at me."

"It's not." I confirmed.

"Most people would deny it." Joker returned, smirking up at me.

"I'm not 'most people'." I stated.

"Of course you're not."

"Stop patronizing me." I scolded. "You're not making me feel any better about myself."

Joker laughed loudly, saying, "This isn't _therapy_, Doll Face. I'm not here to make you feel better about yourself. I'm giving you what you want, not what you need."

"I don't _need_ therapy." I stated.

"Mm, then why are you in a hospital?" Joker asked.

I glanced at his hands that gestured in circles, indicative of not the room, but of the building in general. Even under restraints, he was still as lucid and unbearable as ever. However, I considered his point before I frowned.

"I work here."

"Everyone needs help some times," Joker stated. "Especially, _you_, Kate."

"I don't need therapy."

"Not mentally, maybe, but you certainly need _something_." He smirked. "Why else would you be in my cell?"

I felt my frown deepening. I didn't like him pointing out the obvious, pointing out that what I clearly lacked was a satisfying sexual relationship with a man who I'd been married to for five years and clearly lacked any physical attraction. Most of the time, I felt that Gary was attracted to me sexually but only because of his habit, not pure physical want. Maybe it was me, instead of him, or it was him instead of me. It didn't keep me awake all hours of the night, but it led me to this point.

Maybe I _did_ need therapy.

"If you're not going to do anything from up there," Joker stated, sounding bored, "Maybe we can switch positions. I'm partial to being on top." He winked.

I was startled by his sudden change of topics—having been dropped into the rabbit hole of my reverie, I was frequently tossed to my reality by the quick conversation starters but Joker seemed to cause me mental anguish by flip-flopping me back and forth to my thoughtful rabbit hole and the situation at hand. I stared him, blinking a moment before realizing that I still had him pinned to the ground.

Joker looked at me curiously when I moved off him, getting to my feet. He remained on his back, looking up at me with a smile on his face as if I'd decidedly left the situation on a footnote. But I wasn't finished. The only reason I stopped this odd foreplay was because I could feel my phone vibrating in my pants.

Joker made a small gesture as if to say "Go 'head, take the call'".

_As if I need his permission_ was my thought before I glanced at the screen, realizing with Caller ID that Lyle Bolton was calling me. What the fuck did he need—I was already at work.

I rolled my eyes, taking the phone to my ear as I watched Joker get to his feet.

"Richardson," I answered.

"It's Lyle."

"I know—I have Caller ID."

"Right well..." Lyle said and then offhandedly, "Not now, Karen; I'm working."

From the background, I heard Karen (his wife) say, "It's eight o'clock at night, Lyle..."

"This is urgent, Karen—just stay pretty and look good for me; I'll be done with this phone call shortly." Lyle stated.

I glanced at the phone curiously, having never heard the end of one of Lyle's sex-nights. I didn't want the mental image in my head so I happily waited for Lyle to get on the phone again. He did so, saying, "Prathart's been fired."

"_Fired_?" I repeated sarcastically.

Joker looked at me curiously, interested in the conversation.

"Gee, I wonder why," I continued.

"Stop with the sarcasm," Lyle scolded. "This is important."

"Then fire away—I'm preoccupied myself." I told him.

Joker smirked at me as he sat on the bed, patting the place beside him. I shook my head, but Joker wiggled an index finger to him, in a 'come hither' gesture. Frankly, I was magnetized by my inner submission, and partly because I had the sense that Joker would holler 'HELLO!' if I didn't. I sat beside him, and Joker smiled sheepishly at my obedience.

"With Prathart gone, I need help on the night shift."

"And let me guess, you need me again." I returned unhappily. "You realize you're putting me at odds with my marriage, don't you? Gary isn't used to my nightly routine, and—"

"I don't need to listen to your marital problems, Richardson. I need you on nights."

I glanced at Joker, who was listening to both ends of the conversation. He sat close enough to hear it anyway, and at this point, who was I to hide anything? Or maybe, it was the other way around...

"Can I depend on you to work nights?" Lyle stated.

"Fine..." I muttered.

"Fine what?"

I rolled my eyes and said with the most sarcasm I could muster, "Fine, _**sir**_."

Joker frowned—maybe it was the way I was forced to address Lyle Bolton, or perhaps it was my infinite tone of sarcasm...maybe it was both. I listened to Lyle tell me that I should start tomorrow night and then I'd be placed on nights for the rest of the schedule, and when I had no argument for this (for what argument at this point did I have to make?), Lyle hung up. I rolled my eyes.

"_'Sir'_, huh?" Joker questioned, smiling when I shook my head.

"He's a putz." I uttered.

Joker licked his scars thoughtfully saying, "Looks like you and I will be getting to know each other more than I realized—with you working nights and all."

I stood to my feet.

"That just means I get to wait another night to have this lovely conversation again." I told him. I began to walk away, intent on doing the rest of my rounds and coming back to this later. But I felt a force drawing me back: Joker's hand on my arm. I looked at him pointedly.

"People will suspect—I don't need Bolton chewing my back for being in a cell for far too long." I told Joker.

"You let me deal with _Sir Bolton_." Joker returned, smirking at me. "You worry too much about your job, **Katie baby**."

I stared at him.

Victor's nickname for me spoken by Joker. I stared at him for that, and also because when _he_ said it, I felt a stirring in my loins with a fire I'd never felt before. His voice had deepened to a darker note when he'd spoken it—maybe that's why I could feel it resonate in my chest and groin. Joker grinned knowingly at me.

"I liked hearing it from Vicky," Joker told me lightly. "It fits you well."

I couldn't help but smile in return (_damn my feminine urges). _

"It sounds better coming from you." I confessed.

Joker grinned at me: "Have fun with your rounds, Kate. You know where to find me when you're through." He moved onto his bed, stretched out on his back as he waved at me good-bye until my rounds were complete.

I walked out of the cell, closing the door behind me. I couldn't move for the very fact that my legs felt mushy as though my bones had been replaced with fruit Jell-O.


	15. That Escalated Quickly

**I'VE BEEN WRONG BEFORE**

/

Author's Note: _Amazing! I loved all of your reviews. They were so funny and endearing. :-D _

_/_

Chapter Fifteen: That Escalated Quickly

–

Rounds on Level 1 were simple most of the time. When I came around the nursing station, armed with my flash light, gun holstered in my belt, I was on my phone, listening to the voicemail left by Gary. I wasn't too shocked to see Catherine at the desk, answering late-night phone calls from doctors; that neon red hair could be used as a search light for landing helicopters and airplanes if the situation desperately called for such a torch.

Upon seeing me, Catherine placed a hand over the phone and said quickly while gesturing to the hall to the left, "Room 108! GO!"

I took off to that direction, hearing her urgent whisper and seeing her widened eyes. I jogged down the hall, hearing the commotion. When I recognized Anthony Daves' voice carrying from a room far down the hall, I stopped at the door, glancing in briefly to take in my surroundings. I was not surprised to see a patient, dressed in blue (to be differentiated by the more criminally insane who were dressed in orange), attempting to assault one of the nurse's aides and Anthony.

One of the aides, I recognized, was Ellen, who was African American, nearly fifty, and cranky as hell. Her hair was curly, but currently being pulled by said frustrated blue-uniformed patient, a medicated man with deeply disturbing paranoia.

"Get him down! Get him down!" Anthony snapped; his normally calm features looked incredibly upset and offended by the patient's response.

"Get him off me before you get his ass down!" Ellen snapped at Anthony, who backed away the moment I entered the room.

"Get out." I told Anthony, who quickly obliged.

Just as soon as the man left, I watched the male patient take a spoon from a left-over tray. He snatched Ellen by the sleeve of her jacket and pulled her in front of him, placing the spoon against her throat as if it was a blade. Naturally, Ellen glanced back at him with a look that skeptically said "really, are you fucking kidding me?" but I suppressed my urge to laugh at her reaction. Ellen was a calm woman, especially when she was irritated as she was currently.

"Don't come any closer!" The patient snapped, "I have—I've not done nothin' wrong, I've not...I've not done—they did, they did!"

I held up my hands to show that I meant no harm, and to show that I was completely unarmed (for save the gun on my hip). I smiled pleasantly at the patient, who watched me in return with the polar opposite of calm; he looked freaked out, for sure.

"Hey, hey, hey," I cooed, "You're safe; I'm not going to hurt you. Look...let the woman go, okay? We'll talk nice and easy..."

"No! You're just gonna hurt me! Like they do..." The patient gestured wildly behind me; I chanced a look around to see that the nurses, including Catherine and Anthony, watched with curiosity and uncertainty.

"What's your name?" I asked the patient.

"What's that matter to you!" he demanded anxiously.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll tell you my name," I offered, holding my hands out still. "I'm Officer Katelynn Richardson—I work with the security. You may call me 'Kate'."

Ellen rolled her eyes, saying, "This ain't no damn negotiation, Kate—shoot the guy."

To that response, the patient immediately pulled Ellen's arm back so she painfully went down on her knees in a tight grunt; her face reflected both anger and alarm and the longer the situation continued, I saw Ellen slowly becoming afraid. I frowned at the nurses, shooing them away.

"They're gonna put needles in me," muttered the patient frantically. "Like they do all the time—those damn needles; they give me stuff in those needles, I don't like needles. I don't want—I don't need that medication, or fucking drugs. I'm fine, I'm great—nothin' wrong with me, nothin'!"

From behind me, Catherine uttered, "He needs that medication for this reason alone."

"SHUT UP!" the patient cried, waving the spoon in their direction. "I'M NOT CRAZY!"

"No one is saying you are," I reassured, placing my hands at shoulder height. "Look, what's your name? Do you have a name?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

"Why do you care? You're just helping them."

"I'm not helping anyone," I returned. "I'm just trying to mediate."

The patient stared at me carefully, deciding if I was speaking honestly or attempting deception. Honestly, I just wanted this situation to end so I can retreat upstairs, have a sandwich and get back to stoking the fires that truly needed retouching. I smiled gently at the patient, stepping forward against my better instincts.

"If you want," I offered, "You can take me as your hostage. Ellen can leave."

"Kate..." began Anthony.

"Hush," I snapped at them. I looked at the patient pointedly: "I'm an officer of the law. I'd make a better hostage than Ellen—trust me. Let her go."

The patient shook his head: "They'll just hurt me again...no...no I can't let that happen. No..."

He continued to frantically shake his head. When he dropped the spoon, I thought maybe he'd have learned his lesson and thought it was best to leave the situation be, that we would come to an arrangement and lessen his anxiety. That wasn't the case.

The patient snatched a knife from his tray (Who was the fucker that left a knife utensil on his fucking dinner tray!) and placed it beside Ellen's neck. He threatened to slice her neck, so I stepped forward, hoping to save her life; seeing my advance, the patient did leave her alone, only to come after me. While the patient's eyes were on me, I shouted at Ellen: "RUN!"

Ellen moved quickly for her age, getting out the way. As she dodged around me, the patient leaped forward; I placed myself between Ellen and the patient's assault; I grunted when the knife slipped right into my shoulder, which only prompted me to take out my gun and the shoot the patient. I misfired, glaring at the dead body of a man whose name remained unknown to me; I had only meant to give him a flesh wound—the arm, the leg, anywhere...but instead, I'd shot him square in the face; his body lain on the ground, blood pooling around his head.

I placed my gun slowly in my holster, frowning at the inanimate object. When I heard stirring behind me, I glanced around to see Ellen, who was leaned against the door frame with a hand over her mouth, staring at the dead patient in shock. Catherine looked befuddled, uncertain as to what to do while Anthony seemed surprised by how quickly the situation had escalated. Personally, I was surprised too.

I took the handle of the knife and pulled it out of my shoulder, cringing at the fresh pain but biting my tongue. _Suck it up, Kate. _

"Call it in," I muttered, dropping the knife on the ground. "Don't touch anything in this room—it's evidence." To Catherine, I ordered, "Call your director, tell them one of their patients is dead. Then call Dr. Arkham; he'll have to get a debriefing of the situation."

I was dazed as I walked past them. Catherine snatched my hand, pulling me back.

"You have to get that fixed up," Catherine stated, glancing at my bloodied shoulder.

"It's a scratch," I returned.

"You think it's a scratch," Catherine corrected. "You're in shock; once that wears off, it'll feel like a broken bone; I think you've dislocated it, actually."

"I'll deal with it later," I replied smoothly. I smiled abrasively, hoping to pass the situation. "Call your supervisor. Then ring up Arkham."

"What are _you_ going to do?" Anthony asked, walking past me to start filing the paperwork.

"I've gotta call Bolton," I uttered, wincing.

Catherine was right; the shock was wearing off, dulling my senses to a pain of which I was gradually becoming more and more aware. It was like having two Charlie Horses in your arm.

"Sit down, Kate..." began Catherine.

"I've got my second rounds to do," I replied. "Upstairs."

When she reached out to touch me, I pulled away.

"I just killed a man," I stated coldly, making her flinch. "Cut me some slack; let me do the rest of my job before I get an ass-chewing, okay? _Let me go_."

Catherine held up her hands as if in complete surrender. I nodded to her then continued on my way up the stairs. As I did so, I called Lyle. If I had the option of getting another stabbing from a patient I tried to comfort or receiving this kind of bull crap, I'd have taken that second stabbing. I wasn't in the mood to listen to this shit.

"Did you call Arkham?"

"No—Catherine is doing that."

"You finish your rounds?"

"I'm on Level 2 as we speak."

"Are you okay?"

I smiled at Lyle's expression of concern.

"Yes," I replied after a moment's reminisce. "Catherine says I might have dislocated my shoulder, a flesh wound; might need a few stitches but the shock right now is keeping the pain at bay. I'll get it patched up as soon as I'm finished with Level 2."

"Katelynn, do you want me to come in tonight?" asked Lyle. "A second guard might not be a bad idea tonight..."

"You put me on nights by myself because you trust me," I stated.

"Yes, and I still do."

"Then trust me now: Don't bring a second person here with me. I'm only gonna be babysitting and, no offense, Bolton, but contrary to your beliefs, I _can_ handle myself."

"Well, you just _did_ kill a man."

"How kind of you to remind me—but he did almost knife one of the nurse's aides." I replied sarcastically. "I wasn't going to let him do that."

"You did well on your part; the outcome is still..."

"Don't say it," I interrupted, shaking my head. "I don't need the lecture. Not right now."

"Right—well, I'll explain the situation with Dr. Arkham, and the debriefing from the nurses who were there with you will keep this matter hush-hush." Lyle explained as a way to comfort me.

This, by no means, offered any consolation to my case. For when he said this, I responded remorsefully: "Tell that to the man's family. I'm sure they won't feel the same way."

To this, Lyle said nothing except for a short good bye.

I returned the favor, hanging up at the same time he did.

_Great Job, Kate. This is turning out to be an interesting night for you—I guess you can check off 'murder an innocent man' off your 'Things I Shouldn't Do At Work'. Better redo your Bucket List, right? _

"Shut the fuck up..." I muttered.

For once, my voices obeyed, and I found the smallest shine of hope that this night would get better. So far, I had no promise...

But then again, I'd been wrong before.


	16. Who's To Blame

**I've Been Wrong Before**

_A__uthor's Note: _A special mention to **Black Rose Kalli, ****tracey. Jacoby,****SwordStitcher,****RealHuntress18, ANGEL LOVE 1728, **and**MadMaddie. **And to those guests who don't have a fanfiction account! :D I enjoy reading your reviews—XD

–

**Chapter 16: Who's To Blame**

/

To think I'd be able to finish the rest of my shift without any interruptions had been foolish. Within the hour, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham had arrived in a brown, newly polished and waxed Convertible, getting out of his car with a flourish as he closed the door; as he walked up to the asylum, he lit a cigarette, taking five drags before smothering the flames on the pavement with a shiny dress shoe. He wore a suit, a lab jacket over it; for a man who was called in at the very last-minute, Dr. Arkham arrived in a better manner than the rest of us.

Arkham was in his late twenties-early thirties, his hair kept short, and brown eyes that could sway a woman to do his most unreasonable bidding; sometimes, he could have those puppy dog eyes, and the ladies of Arkham (staff or patient) would accommodate whatever he needed; then again, I'd seen him angry once, and those puppy dog eyes were no longer so sweet-looking.

The majority of us were sitting in the lobby.

Catherine and Anthony sat on a couch, looking apprehensive. Their shifts were currently being covered by Lori Heart who had been called in due to the egregious event. Lori went in the back way, knowing the Boss would be coming in; no one wanted to be here, above all, anyone who wasn't associated with this unhappy incident.

Ellen sat in an armchair, looking at her hands; she was still in shock due to the life-threatening event of having been intimidated with a knife (a butter knife, but a knife, none the less). I remained standing, unable to find any relaxation of my life when I knew there was a man dead because of my overreaction.

Had I simply waited to shoot him, carefully aimed at a limb instead of a face, the patient would be injured, sure, but still alive. Naturally, I blamed myself for his death _because_ I was to blame...even if that was not the case, I knew the man's family would see it that way. What I was expecting was a sure sacking and then never to become a cop—however belittling the title of a security guard seemed, it still gave me a chance to wear the title of 'Officer'.

Quite frankly, I _never_ saw my life turning out this way.

In my self-loathing, I was meddling in those thoughts when I was dimly aware of Dr. Arkham entering the hospital. He glanced at all the staff, noticing a few familiar faces but not all of them. Dr. Arkham wasn't a visitor in the late nights, so he didn't recognize any of the night shift.

But there was me.

I worked on days, until now. And the look that registered on Arkham's face was a bit crestfallen.

Just as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened from behind him and all of us glanced in that direction, seeing Lyle Bolton enter the hospital. I lowered my gaze at the tile, identifying myself with a small speck of dirt that Cullson had left behind in his nightly mopping of the floors...

_I wish I was that speck of dirt._

"I don't have to tell you," Dr. Arkham stated professionally, "that this is an unfortunate incident."

"It was an _accident_," Ellen said immediately.

I glanced at her, suppressing a smile.

Leave it to Ellen to come to my rescue.

"Well," Arkham stated pointedly, "I didn't think this was intentional."

I felt eyes on me but I stared at the speck of dirt as if it was something interesting. At this point, any focus point was interesting, just as long as I didn't have to see the shameful look on Lyle's face, and the disheartening one on Dr. Arkham's.

"I need a statement from all of you," Dr. Arkham instructed formally. I could hear the snobbish tone that accompanied his childhood of growing up with a rich pair of parents and lovely way of living, but I reckoned this was his voice and way of talking, not a personality quirk. He indicated the lot of us, adding, "I'd like it on my desk by the end of the shift, preferably as soon as you can write it. I know the situation has come bit of a shock, so I won't expect immediate results; all of you have been..."

"Oh, _get _**_real_**."

Arkham paused, surprised by my interruption. I wasn't shocked to see a look of disappointment when I'd rudely disturbed his lamentable speech, and I expected Lyle's sigh of exasperation. Was I not in trouble enough already?

_Evidently not._

I stood to my feet.

"Look," I said. "You're not fooling anyone. Everyone already blames me for the man's death, and personally, I don't blame them." I smiled at Arkham: "This will affect the hospital's reputation—everyone knows that."

"Officer Richardson," said Arkham smoothly, "I do realize you are upset by your actions, but..."

"I'm not just 'upset'. I'm devastated." I told him. I indicated my arm which, thanks to Catherine's fine sewing skills, was stitched up and placed in a sling; the bleeding had reduced (I wasn't much of a bleeder anyway), but I felt a lot of pain. Arkham and Lyle glanced at my arm as I said: "I did what I thought was necessary at the time. I didn't mean to kill the patient—but he threatened Ellen's life" (the group glanced at Ellen) "and I wasn't about to let anything happen to her."

"I'm not proud of it," I told Arkham pointedly. "I'd have sacrificed my life before taking someone else's."

Dr. Arkham placed his hands in front of him to state that he meant no offense as he said gently, "No one blames you for his demise, Miss Richardson. This was an unfortunate incident, a horrible circumstance. The Board Members will understand that the patient was mentally insane..."

"Everyone here is insane," Anthony commented.

I waved him away fiercely, saying, "That man was confused, Anthony. Not insane."

"He's a patient in an asylum." Catherine voiced pointedly. "Of course he was nuts. He threatened your life and Ellen's. He was on medication for his paranoia..."

"Maybe you should take that into consideration," I hissed.

Catherine glared at me, getting to her feet.

"He's always been paranoid—some people can't accept what's happened to them, but we must take such measures to make sure all that staff are safe here. He wouldn't take his anxiety medication by pill or liquid so the next option only was by injections. He'd always been so confused and the like, but..."

I frowned, saying, "Let me guess—some fucking nurse forgot to give him his medication?"

Catherine lifted her head in offense, looking down at me with her eyes but I wasn't intimidated. That small response was enough for me to realize that Catherine had forgotten to give the patient his anxiety medication, missing his dose that normally kept him sedated, but albeit, a non-violent man.

In light of this new circumstance, Dr. Arkham looked at Catherine, beginning a new torrent of how this was an unfortunate incident in the hospital, that all people make mistakes and forget to give some medication with such a large patient count, that it wasn't anyone's fault that this man had died. When Arkham's tone didn't change, I frowned and walked out of the lobby.

Ellen tried to stop me but I heard Lyle say, "Let her go."

I thanked him wordlessly for that small amount of liberation.

Whether or not I would be fired was up in the air. Whether or not Catherine would lose her license because of this 'unfortunate incident' was just as uncertain. Whether or not, maybe, probably, if, if, if, if...

In this situation, everyone was uncertain of everything. Who would get pinned for this? Who would suffer the consequences of negligent behavior?

_Who_

_ What if..._

_ Whether or not..._

_ If..._

_ If..._

_ What if..._

I walked up the stairs to Level 2. I ignored the nurses and staff, walking past them to the doors that gave me the only entrance to the hall of criminally insane, violent patients. I slid my badge, pressed my thumb print, and when the doors made their regular loud unlatching sounds, I walked through the door, allowing it to close on its own accord. I didn't care if anyone listened, or followed me.

For all I knew, this was the last time I'd be up here.

I walked down the hall and stopped at the farthest cell to the left, looking through the window to see the Joker, lying idly in his bed. He looked perfectly relaxed; I couldn't suppress a smile when I saw his feet on the wall, his arms behind his head. At the right angle, I pictured him in an invisible hammock, watching the sun set on a perfectly lazy afternoon.

_What I'd give to feel that kind of peace..._

"Katelynn..."

I was just about to enter the cell, to give myself to a man that stood against all I believed, if not but to feel the ability to let go of a situation I wouldn't be able to handle and for once feel a certain amount of...god...what was the word?

_Freedom?_

I smiled at Lyle who was walking quickly down the hall. He seemed conflicted, but upon seeing me, he relaxed immensely.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Finishing my rounds," I responded lightly. I glanced him up and down: "Why?"

Lyle rolled his eyes: "You're the most dedicated woman I've ever seen, Katelynn—shoot a man and get a lecture from the administrator and yet you still do your job."

"Well," I returned, glancing into Joker's cell, "there _was_ a reason why Arkham considered giving _me_ the job."

"What job?" asked Lyle.

I gazed at him pointedly and attempted to hide my vindication: "Yours."

Lyle nodded, smiling modestly.

"Richardson, Dr. Arkham advises you to have a month's suspension without pay," Lyle told me as he and I walked down the hall. "Your actions will have cost the hospital a valuable reputation—you're not the only one going on suspension; Catherine is too. They can do without a nurse on Level 1; the patients, aside from _that_ patient, are pretty stable. As far as you're concerned..."

We walked through the doors, and they latched behind us. I turned to Lyle and wordlessly offered my gun, badge, and flashlight.

"Stop with the lecture," I begged. "I'm not in the mood."

Lyle looked at my offerings and then gave them back.

"Arkham suggests I put you on suspension," Lyle stated. "Level 1 can do without a nurse like Catherine—she doesn't do much anyway. But I need you on my night shift."

My eyebrows raised past my forehead in surprise.

"Prathart quit, Cecil O'Brien is in jail..." Lyle began.

"Jail?" I repeated incredulously.

Lyle cleared his throat, saying, "He had a DUI and is refusing to pay the fine so I'm down now two officers."

I stared at Lyle, saying, "What about Dimitri? He's a night shifter."

"Quit as well," Lyle said.

"Why?"

"Got married and moved to Metropolis," Lyle informed.

"Paul?"

"He quit to take care of his dying mother," Lyle returned.

"Charles?"

Lyle smiled, saying, "I _personally_ fired him."  
"For?"

Lyle shifted uncomfortably saying, "He's been having an affair with one of the patients on Level 1."

I stared at Lyle, thinking of my own situation but that took me out for a second when Lyle touched my uninjured shoulder.

"Besides you and Scott and Ricky, I don't have anyone else," Lyle stated unhappily. "I know you're having some marital problems, working night shift but..."

"My marriage is fine," I lied. "I don't mind working nights—I'm growing fond of the quiet."

Lyle nodded: "Anyway, I want you to go home tonight. Arkham advises that much. With all that's happened, some of the nurses who can't keep their gobs shut will be spreading rumors and all that patients and day shift will no doubt find out about it..there's nothing we can do to stop that..."

I smiled bitterly: "You sound as though you've grown quite fond of me, Lyle. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I don't like your personality, Richardson—you can be a real prude when you want to be," Lyle admitted outright, "But you've proven yourself over and over again that you can handle yourself. Tonight was just another one of those nights when you continue to impress me."

"Don't say I make you proud," I teased, "that might make me cry."

"We wouldn't want that," Lyle replied, smiling at me. "Anyway, I'll finish these rounds—I'll get James Kyle to help me out with these people. I'm going to give you time for that shoulder of yours to heal but I'm putting it on your sick leave."

"Fine with me," I said, holding out my left arm—my right was the injured one. "I'm going home then."

"Get well," Lyle's only response to my well-being.

I nodded and then walked down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the building for a well-anticipated week away from work...or at least, I thought it would be.


	17. Gary Finds Out That I've Been Suspended

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

**Chapter Seventeen: Gary Finds Out That I've Been Suspended**

/

I closed the door to the apartment on my way in with a small click, placing my holster belt on the end table as I detached my flash light and gun, placing them alongside the belt. As I walked through the kitchen, I wasn't surprised to see Gary at the table, doing a crossword. While it was 12 midnight, I found his out-of-habit activities kinda quirky; he looked up at me with surprise, having not expected me.

"What are you doing here?" asked Gary.

He was dressed in a blue robe that hid his knobby knees; his hair was unkempt, proving to me that he had indeed attempted sleep but my absence from his nightly routine had caused him to become an insomniac. I felt guilty for causing him such discomfort, but the smile on his face read anything but. As I walked behind his chair to get a coke from the refrigerator, Gary continued to look at me, expecting my answer.

"I'm suspended for a week." I told him.

Gary then saw the sling around my right arm. Immediate concern stressed his gaze; he quickly got to his feet, taking the coke from my hand and I watched him curiously pull out a chair opposite of him.

"Sit. I'll get this for you." Gary offered, indicating the chair then the coke.

I didn't feel like arguing, saying that I was okay. Honestly, I didn't mind the insistence this time, so I took a seat, still wearing my officer's uniform. I watched Gary walk around the kitchen, retrieving a speckle-free glass, placing exactly three ice cubes in it before adding my can of coke to the sweet caffeinated elixir. He withdrew a coaster from one of the drawers, added a napkin on top of it, and placed the coaster in front of me, then handed over my beverage.

I smiled thankfully at him, as he sat across from me; he folded away his crossword, looking at me worriedly.

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Why were you suspended? And why on God's green Earth are you wearing that sling? Has it been sanitized?"

"I'm fine," I replied. "One of the nurses say I've only dislocated it..."

"_Only_?" repeated Gary; his eyes grew to the size of saucer plates. "Do you need pain medication?"

"No, I'm fine," I repeated. "A patient stabbed me, but..."

"Katelynn, you need a _real _doctor!"

I chuckled, saying, "Dr. Arkham checked it over before I left."

"My point still stands," Gary returned. He took his cell phone from the kitchen counter, on which it laid as it was charging, and began to dial a number. I stood to my feet, snatching it from him. Gary stared at me.

"I'm fine, Gary." I reassured. "It's been snapped back into place. The stabbing was only a flesh wound; it'll heal without infection. As for my suspension..." I handed back his phone, "It's a month, but Lyle needs me. So he's only putting me off for a week."

"'Lyle needs me'," Gary repeated unhappily. He sat down, looking up at me, disheartened. "Katelynn, you've been stabbed by the very people you consistently attempt to defend, and I find your actions certifiable. For _what_ reason did that patient have to stab you?"

I sat back down, looking at him.

"Don't blame the patient," I returned quietly. "It wasn't his fault; he was confused, panicked...the nurses forgot to give him his medication."

"Well, maybe this time they'll remember, won't they?" Gary returned knowingly; he stood to his feet to fetch him a glass of tea.

"They won't forget all right," I reassured. "The man's dead."

Gary stopped shortly at the refrigerator, closing the door slowly to look at me in with a mixture of apology and surprise. He sighed, closing his eyes then asked, "Did you...?"

"I did," I remarked remorsefully.

Gary sighed deeply once more, sitting across from me. His hands were clasped, looking at them uncertainly then turned to me.

"Why did you kill him?"

"I didn't _aim_ for his head—but he threatened Ellen. And me."

"But you killed him..." Gary reinforced. He sighed, "Maybe this suspension will be good for the both of us."

I believed my eyes brightened with hatred for the comment for Gary sat back in his seat in alarm.

"Good for _you_ maybe," I retorted. "I blame myself for the man's death, Gary. I don't need you to pile more guilt onto what I already feel."

"I've told you working at the asylum would never lead you to a life of happiness, Katelynn," Gary reminded logically. "The people there are insane—staff and patients alike. Why you believe your job will pay off in the end is beyond me; the people there will hate you for the reputation the hospital gets from now on...and who can blame them?"

I bit my tongue for a second, hoping that small amount of pain would distract me from the emotional turmoil Gary was causing me. Wasn't he supposed to support me in this crisis of mine? Wasn't he supposed to say he'd have done the same thing? Wasn't he?

"Gary," I muttered.

"Yes?"  
"Shut the fuck up." I stated coldly.

Gary frowned: "There's no need for that language."

"I disagree—I find it very necessary."

"Katelynn, I know you're experiencing a bit of emotional turmoil, but I hardly believe this is the best way to handle your emotions."

"You _just_ said I'm responsible for what's happened to the patient and myself," I remarked. "I believe I'm handling it rather well, don't you think?"

"But you said so yourself, you _are _responsible."

I shook my head: "You're supposed to support me."

"I do support you—emphatically, still. I just don't support your decision to continue a remedial job that's clearly causing you pain...literally, actually," Gary returned. "You don't owe that hospital anything—you don't owe them your life, your time, or your respect."

I glared at him silently.

Gary shook his head again, saying quietly, "Is all of this because Gordon wouldn't let you work for him in his unit?"

I glared harder at him.

"He said the only reason..."

"I _know_ the reason he said I couldn't join!" I snapped furiously, getting to my feet. I glared at Gary: "Why do you bring this shit up all the time! Do you _like_ feeling better than me, Gary? Is that what really gets you off, huh? You bring up my mistake with Victor, you bring up what you think is my 'remedial, thankless, unimportant' job—and you remind me the reason I can't be a police officer is because..."

I bit my lip. I hated speaking the reason. Lucky me, I guess, Gary happily brought it out to the open.

"Because you're not all there?" offered Gary, finding my words.

I frowned at him: "Will you stop saying it like that? You make me sound like I'm a fucking nut."

"Hey, hey, hey," Gary coaxed. He walked around the table, touching my shoulders then caressing my face with his hands: "Look, you can't help that your psyche evaluation didn't turn out so great when you tried out to be a cop—it's not your fault you came off a little loopy."

I frowned at him: "You think you're making me feel better but you're making me feel worse."

Gary smiled encouragingly.

"In all retrospect, Katelynn, saying you 'understand' why criminals behave the way they do isn't something a police officer should say to their boss. And saying you 'envy' them is like telling the whole public you're crazy." Gary stated. He shrugged: "That's just not something you say to Commissioner Gordon."

"How the fuck would you know anything about that?" I questioned. "You're not a cop."

"No, I'm a lawyer. And as one, I'm built as a smooth talker." Gary bragged, letting go of my face so he straightened his robe per his distaste in wrinkled clothes. "Speaking of which, since we've defied all logic and reason, I can kind of show you just how _smooth_ I can be." He winked.

I was a bit stumped by his segue to sexual relations but...

"No offense, Mr. Smooth, but I'm not feeling up to it." I returned quietly.

Gary shrugged: "It was a poor attempt at humor." He chuckled as he walked out of the kitchen to use the bathroom, saying humorously, "'Defy logic and reason'—what a funny thing to say, heh heh heh."

I stared after him. He came back a short minute later and said in the same good-humored tone, "Maybe on top of that, we can even try a little useless foreplay, huh?" He laughed again walking to the bedroom.

I rolled my eyes.

I should have known Gary wouldn't initiate sexual congress, even for a little pity sex.

Gary was the same way in bed as he was with work: In. Out. No playing around of any kind and he certainly did not take anything seriously. I shook my head as I took another coke from the refrigerator, carefully opening it with my left hand as unstably as possible—I was a right-handed person, not a lefty. When the coke foamed on the counter and on my shoes, I realized this week of 'relaxation' would be anything but that.


	18. Good To Be Back

**I've Been Wrong Before**

–

_/_

Chapter Eighteen: Good To Be Back

/

A long boring week passed as if I'd lived it three times. I spent most of the time I had in the house, cleaning a bit (for lack of anything else to do), making breakfast for Gary, who was looking much better the following morning as I'd slept beside him that night. He was clean-shaven, no mustache of any kind, and looking particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He sauntered over to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist; I glanced at him curiously.

"Good morning, Katelynn."

"Good morning, Gary."

"How was your night?" Gary asked curiously.

I glanced at him: "You never ask me that."

Gary shrugged: "As your husband, I thought it was my duty to want to ask you how you spent last night."

I rolled my eyes. I wasn't in the mood to get into this argument of how I wanted him to want to ask how I was in the morning, or how I wanted him to have the ultimate desire of making breakfast for me...for once. When I spared him no foul retort laced with curses, Gary smiled at me.

"I guess that injury has changed you for the best, has it not?" Gary asked.

"Oh yes," I replied sarcastically, placing an omelet on his plate along with a biscuit, "It's like I'm a whole new person."

Gary ignored my cynicism and thanked me for breakfast then sat at the table with a coffee in front of him, placed on a napkin, which sheltered the wooden coaster. In his coffee, I added four sugars and two creamers, paying a mind to add them in same order, respectively. Gary watched me curiously, noting my lack of argument that it would taste the same in no matter what order.

"Are you feeling okay, Katelynn?"

I acknowledged the fact that I was acting out of the ordinary. I hadn't argued about the excessive cleaning products lying around in the bathroom, or how he insisted I make him breakfast despite the fact I still had my good arm uncomfortably placed in a sling. I hadn't argued with him about how he'd refused me the small window of sexual desire I had (he pretty much pushed me off the bed, hence the pain currently felt in my right arm).

I could have overlooked that sexual refusal if it wasn't for the fact that it only had to be on his terms, never mine. That one night I actually felt he _wanted_ me had been short-lived, fifteen minutes. 'Why so short?', you may ask. Well, I'll unhappily tell you that Gary didn't believe in preheating the oven before putting in the turkey; when he finished, he left me alone.

And people wondered why I woke up in such a foul mood.

"I'm peachy," I replied wholeheartedly. I sat across from him: "Would you like to know why?"

"Sure," said Gary, "before you say anything, could you hand me a napkin? I'm not a barbarian—I'd like to have something on which I can clean my hands."

I rolled my eyes, getting out of my chair so as to walk across the kitchen, take a napkin from the holder on the stove, and handed it to him carelessly. He took it, nodding to me as if I was a waitress who'd taken too long with the utensils and food; I brushed this off, sitting in front of him again.

"So tell me—what has you acting strangely this morning?" asked Gary.

"I'm going back to work tonight." I told Gary.

Gary stared at me, stopping in mid-chew of a bite of an omelet. As if he experienced a minor case of dysphagia, he painfully gulped down that bite, glowering at me disappointedly. Before I smiled, he was already frowning.

"But your shoulder..." Gary offered.

"It's practically healed—no thanks to you." I returned coolly. "I'm going back to the doctor, and he's going to check base with me about what I still can or can't do. With that, I'm calling Lyle, telling him that he won't have to work tonight, for the very fact I'll be coming back."

Gary glared at me: "This is highly inconvenient."

"I've been doing chores around the house with a dislocated shoulder and half-an-inch puncture in my arm." I stated. I took his plate and slid it in my direction, taking a bite of the omelet with my bare hand and then sliding his plate back, appeased by the look of disgust and spite on his face. "You can just suck it up."

"Katelynn, I feel as though you're doing this to annoy me personally."

"Does it feel like that?" I countered. "Gee, I guess this injury of mine hasn't changed me _at all_." I grinned devilishly at him: "I'm working nights from now on, Gary. Better get used to making your own damn breakfast at two in the morning, because I'll be doing the same at work."

I smiled sarcastically at him, then dressed for the day in the bathroom. Before I left, I saw Gary taking out the vacuum cleaner to clean the carpet for the third time this morning. The first and second was to comfortably clean—now he was doing this out of pure spite (not that it bothered me).

(())

In keeping with the promise I made with Dr. Arkham, I made a doctor's appointment to get my arm checked out before I proceeded to work tonight. The results were promising—aside from the scars left from the stabbing, I had to be careful not to hinder my arm as it was still fragile where the bone work was concerned. The doctor explained to me that while my shoulder was in the right set position, any tremendous impact would dislocate it again; if that was the case, I'd have to give it the same impact and it would snap right back into place. I couldn't help but smile and say, "Oh, you mean like Mel Gibson in '_Lethal Weapon'_."

Obviously, the doctor didn't watch that much television for he only smiled awkwardly and went on to tell me that he had prescription drugs for pain management if I so desperately needed them. I declined the happy offer, but he insisted so I took the papers and placed them carelessly in my purse. On my way home to change my outfit from casual civilian to security guard, I received a call from Lyle Bolton.

I took the liberty of using my right hand and picked up on the fourth ring, stopping in front of the apartment.

"Richardson," I answered dutifully.

"I didn't think I'd enjoy hearing that callous response," Lyle chuckled good humoredly from his end.

"What's up?" I asked as I got out of the car, closing the door on my way out.

"Did the doctor approve?"

"Just as long as I don't fall off a roof and land on my shoulder, I'm good to go." I told Lyle as I entered the apartment; I was relieved to see that Gary wasn't home; he was still at work.

"Then come to the break room—get here earlier if you can. I have a few things to discuss with you before the rounds begin."

"Sure thing." I returned.

"Oh and Richardson..."

"Yeah?"

"It's good to have you back." Lyle replied.

"Thanks." I said, beaming.

He hung up, and I readied myself for tonight.

(())

I left the apartment about thirty minutes 'til six, owing to the fact that Lyle had those points to discuss. When I came into the hospital, Cullson was, as usual, standing in the lobby, mopping the floors and adding wax to their already-beautiful luster. He acknowledged me with a nod then asked quietly, "How's the shoulder?"

I gave him a curious glance and he explained: "It's all over the place, Katelynn."

"Yeah," I sighed with resignation, "News this big would not stay hush-hush forever, would it?"

Cullson chortled, "You're not that lucky, Kate. Ha, ha." He glanced at his watch, furrowing his eyebrow at it, "Why so early?"

"Lyle wants to talk to me," I replied lightly. "I don't know what about but I'm just glad to be here. I'll take this job over staying at home with Gary any day of the week."

Cullson nodded—neutral as ever. Cullson was a good man that way; if he didn't really have an opinion on the matter, he remained wordless. He wasn't a very opinionated guy. When Cullson waved bye to me to be on his way down the hall in order to mop and wax them, I waved back and continued on to Level 1. I turned a left, then a right—if there was a teleporting device to get me from point A to point Z, I'd have taken it. The walk itself was almost tiring.

I arrived in the break room, smiling when I saw Lyle on the phone. Due to his sweet honey tone and the provocative smile on his face, I assumed he was speaking to his wife, Karen.

"No, no, I have something extra special planned," Lyle purred. "After all, it's the special day...well, yes, I remembered...I love you too, baby...I'll bring the champagne. You just get ready for me when—"

"Ahem," I cleared my throat, smiling from the door way.

Lyle turned quickly, eyes widening upon seeing me; he coughed with embarrassment.

"Uh, yeah, sure, an extra large pizza," he recovered unsuccessfully, "anchovies, yeah, and hell, get some breadsticks. Yeah, I'll give you the money when it gets there, sure, okay, bye."

I smirked when he hung up the phone, shoving it into the pocket of his pants. I leaned against the counter, folding my arms.

"Happy Anniversary," I stated, seeing through his cover.

Lyle blinked then rolled his eyes, "None of that goes anywhere but here. Got it?"

I raised my hands, shrugging carelessly: "Hey, I'm not a rat. Someone has to know that you can be a lovable bear when you're not here frisking patients." I couldn't suppress another smirk when Lyle seemed mildly uncomfortable by the way I put his 'security measures'.

By all means if I had the proof to put the man away for abusive measures on the patients, I would. I hated the fact that Calypso and Medusa were afraid of him, making me sick to the stomach but I couldn't do anything without knowing it was his word over mine. I was only here for two years; and he was the Head of Security. So I did my small justice peace by sending him verbal signs that I knew what he was really doing when he 'searched' patient rooms. A good beat down always made a patient more affable to do things that they wouldn't normally do.

"So," I said, passing over his discomfort, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"The patient that died," Lyle said, "was a schizophrenic; he heard voices, saw things that weren't there—and the negligence of the medication doses was only a contributing factor to his mental and psychotic breakdown." He handed me a vanilla envelope; it was a thin one. "This is a statement folder; you write down what happened, exactly as it did. I want it by the end of your shift."

"Sure," I said lightly, taking the folder.

"Another thing," said Lyle, holding up a finger. He took a walkie talkie from the shelf (there were three), and handed me one. "You keep this with you at all times, and keep it on."

"Why?" I asked. "I never need it."

"Let's keep it that way," Lyle reassured. "I know you go into those patient rooms alone. It's against policy, but so far, it seems to work well for you."

I snorted, "What, you're not holding the death of a man against me?"

Lyle frowned saying, "That happened under different circumstances; he was, quite literally, out of his mind. What you did under those circumstances was something anyone else would have done. His death is tragic, sure, but you're not to blame."

"Then who's to blame?" I asked.

Lyle looked at me curiously, stepping towards me.

"What are you talking about?"

"His family will sue, won't they?" I questioned, crossing my arms.

"He doesn't have a family," replied Lyle solemnly.

"He doesn't?"

"No—his wife died of cancer, and his daughter is ex-communicated. Also, he was self-committed." Lyle returned. He shrugged: "I guess if a person had to make the mistake of killing a patient, he was the perfect one to do in."

I narrowed my eyes, saying coldly, "I didn't _mean_ to kill him. It just happened!"

Lyle nodded, quickly saying, "I'm not blaming you, Richardson—I'm pointing out the facts."

"Oh god, you've been hanging around Gary, haven't you?" I retorted unhappily.

Lyle stared at me, surprised by my response, but he said nothing to help or hinder my most recent accusation. Instead, he cleared his throat, pulled out the phone from his pocket of his pants and then smiled at me pointedly.

"Got a handle on this?" asked Lyle. "If so, I'm taking my leave; I have a beautiful date with a beautiful woman and I don't intend on breaking it, god so help me."

"Go on," I encouraged. "I've got this."

"You know the procedure right? Don't go into the patient cells without a second person with you. Don't give out any personal information. No physical contact what so ever, and most of all..."

"I know, I know," I muttered. "Don't let them convince me to free them."

"Exactly," Lyle said. He touched my shoulder. "Did you get a scar by any chance?"

"Just adding that one to my collection of other injuries I've acquired over the years," I replied nonchalantly. I pulled up my T-shirt sleeve, revealing the red scratch that would soon become a very light scar.

Lyle smiled, "Not turning out too badly at all."

"Nope," I agreed.

"Good. Good." Lyle patted my shoulder, saying, "Well, I'm off. If you need anything..."

"I'll hesitate to call," I responded.

Lyle laughed unnaturally loud at my comment then started on his way out of the hospital to meet a beautiful Karen for their anniversary. I watched him until he stepped into the elevator. Down the hall from the break room and camera room was the Level 1 nurse's station. I reckoned I should start my rounds there but...it had been a week since I saw my favorite patient.

_Time to say 'hello'._

I smiled, and left for the stairs, making my way to Level 2. A long anticipated visit, and so much to talk about.

(())

_Author's Note: Joker will be in the next chapter, Pinky Promise ;) _


	19. Let Go

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

Chapter Nineteen: Let Go

/

Author's Note:

Have fun, Kiddies! It's time for bed for me, but I wanted to post this for you! :D

/

On the weekend, things were more relaxed. If one never looked at the calendar, it would be a typical Tuesday every day for not a person would know the difference. However, humanity followed a calendar for more than just the week—there was always a Saturday and a Sunday. On any of these days, a person would rather be home with kids, or out on a party, talking to their friends, or watching a good old-fashioned movie about Scrabble.

At work, the atmosphere was the same, for save the fun.

At work, people were more free-spirited, happy to goof around. Some of the nurses on Level 1 brought cokes and ordered pizza, and even brought in a stereo and radio to listen to music or listen to the sports game that they were currently missing thanks to their area of expertise.

The staff were not the only people more relaxed on the weekends; the patients seemingly had a time clock in their brains when they realized that it was Saturday, not days between Monday and Friday. It was as if a certain amount of burden that had been placed over their heads was being lifted, and all of them hardly needed their medication to be subdued...granted, after the incident with the patient in 108, the nurses maintained a tight schedule of giving out medication.

Why did people react differently on weekends instead of weekdays? I would have said it was the lack of bosses—no administrative powers or Powers-That-Be that would come in and wreck a fun-filled afternoon. I had not worked on nights very long but from what I could tell, this was the main reason. It only made me wonder why the night shift was 'burdened' by it when the big wigs always left before they came on.

Finally, a woman on Level 2, lovely Lori Heart, had found me before I had started my rounds as I was heading to the hallway. She took me by the arm, surprising me, but I smiled at her when realizing who she was. It stunned me to see her on nights again, so I asked why she was here at eight when she could be home with her kids.

Lori had two twin daughters at home, identical from head-to-toe, and they were eight. I smiled when Lori led me into their breakroom, allowing me to see that there was pepperoni pizza, ice cream, and cake at my disposal, offering me a piece. I naturally waved my hand, declining politely.

"No thanks," I said, smiling. "I had a fudge brownie before I came to work."

"Trying to lose weight?" asked Lori skeptically as she took a large piece for herself. The woman was so skinny, I figured she had a high metabolism.

I smiled again, saying, "No—I'm not feeling cake tonight. But I'll take pizza."

She made a slice in the box for me, offering me a paper plate and then a large piece. I took it gratefully, then looked at her.

"You've not answered my question," I reminded.

We gathered at the nurse's station, noting that James Kyle was going down the hall to check on the patients. I watched after him suspiciously—ever since that conversation about checking prisoners' cells, I wondered if he was in on Lyle's measures, if he was part of the people who went in and beat on the patients. Strangely, I felt he wasn't as brutal as Bolton; the girls didn't care for him, but they weren't sickly afraid of him.

I looked at Lori pointedly.

"I was placed on nights," said Lori—I winced at her negativity. "Catherine's been suspended so Angie went and replaced her while I was put up here."

"No say in it?" I offered.

"None—I looked at the schedule and realized I was working up here tonight, not on Level 1."

"Can't even decide where you're going?" I returned: "That doesn't sound fair."

"It isn't. But I can't be ungrateful—I get to hang out with a few of my old friends," Lori reminisced, smiling at me. "How's that shoulder?"

I cocked my head to the side, smiling as I said, "News travels, doesn't it?"

"Like a disease," agreed Lori half-heartedly. "And you're the focus of it, unfortunately."

"Who opened their mouth?" I asked.

"Catherine," scoffed Lori, rolling her eyes. "She blames her suspension on you."

"I heard about that," I replied apathetically.

"The blame?"

"No, the suspension."

"Yeah, well," Lori continued, "not all of us can blame you, Katelynn. You're one hell of a security guard—Ellen's been defending your honor since the rumors started about how you're to blame if the hospital goes under. Then again, it's not the first time our reputation has suffered; remember that break-out that happened two years ago?"

I nodded. I severely remembered it.

"Anyway," Lori said after she took a bite of her cake, "You have my vote."

"Vote?" I repeated.

Lori smirked: "We have a pot running with your name on it."

"About?"

"Replacing Lyle as Head of Security," Lori answered. She laughed when my eyes grew wide. "Trust me, Katelynn—you have all the nurses' votes if the position is ever handled. Lyle Bolton is a good cop, but a bad man. But, uhm, you didn't hear it from me." She stuffed her face with cake, and I laughed at the funny display.

"So there's gossip of that changing, then?" I asked curiously.

Lori shrugged, saying, "Arkham had a bit of conversation with the head nurses, including Barbara Gordon."

"Oh yeah, the Commissioner's wife," I recollected. "She's the Charge Nurse."

"Right," Lori said, nodding. "She's the Number One nurse—director, I think." Lori handed me the rest of her cake when I finished my pizza; thus far, I took it anyway, and began eating it.

"So what about Arkham?" I asked.

"Arkham told Barbara that Lyle is a great Head of Security—he's got the goods when it comes to security; there hasn't been a break-out for years," Lori said, gesticulating the time span with a dramatic 'hug' of her arms. "But there have been complaints from patients about his methods; the incompetent ones complain like always, but the ones more alert won't say anything. Or they're afraid."

I nodded, saying, "I have my suspicions concerning Lyle."

Lori's eyes widened with curiosity as she said, "So you're not unfamiliar with the odd reactions he gets with patients."

"Please," I scoffed. "Calypso and Medusa—they hate men. The fact he scares them has made me curious from day one that I started here. There's another thing."

"What other thing?" asked Lori.

She leaned in closer when I did.

"When I get the proof—and I _will—_I'm bringing his ass to the Arkham Board Members," I promised Lori. "The patients here are criminally insane and two winds past Sunday, but they're also like the patient that stabbed me. Some of them don't know they're hurting people—the others, well...I can't really defend."

"Like the Joker or Victor, right?" Lori said.

I smiled weakly: "Right."

Lori nodded: "If you can get Lyle Bolton on those abuse charges, me and Ellen are gonna back you a hundred and ten percent. Like I said: Bolton is a damn good cop, but a very bad man. To see him be nice to us and then so brutal to those patients..."

"You've seen him?" I asked Lori.

Lori's face saddened as she said, "No. He keeps them quiet. But some of them cry in the morning and when I've come into their cells, they look more bruised and unhappy."

I nodded, saying, "Yes. I've seen that too."

"Like I said," Lori offered wistfully, "110 percent."

I smiled, nodding my thanks to her and then handed her my clean plate.

"Thanks for the pizza and cake—that was really good."

"No problem; there will probably be extras," Lori stated. "You can have some later if you want."

"I might take you up on that," I said with a light chuckle.

Lori then smiled and started charting on her patients' medications. I watched her briefly then walked down the hall. I entered the same as I always did: badge swipe, thumb press, doors unlatched. I entered, and the doors closed with a click behind me. I was very aware of the noise, feeling that the sound was a lot noisier than I remembered, but assuming that being absent for a week might have dulled my memory.

I did my rounds accordingly—I checked Kart Carter's cell. He appraised my presence as I entered.

"Where have you been, been?" Carter asked excitedly.

"On vacation," I lied.

"A week's worth, worth?"

"A very _long_ vacation," I corrected, smiling at him. "How have you been, Carter?"

"Oh, the same ol', same o'l...same o'l." Carter responded, smiling at me still.

I checked the drawers in his dresser, expecting the picture of his four-year-old daughter's drawing of her father but when I didn't feel it, I glanced at him curiously. Carter's lips tightened with an expression of dulled sadness, and those eyes cast downward in passive-aggressive grief.

"What happened to it?" I asked.

"They took it away," Carter muttered, "They took it away, away."

"Why?"

"Contraband, contraband," Carter explained. "They didn't want me to keep it, keep it."

I felt embarrassed, uncertain as to what to do when tears started falling down Carter's face. I recognized those puppy dog eyes becoming wide and attempting to hide behind a pair of hands that sheltered his face.

"Who took it?" I asked.

"Bolton, Bolton. He took it, it. He took it, it, and said I'd never give it back, back."

I frowned. The only thing that held Carter to a sense of humanity, the only thing that kept him so subdued was that picture that reminded him of a life he used to have and could still have. The odds of him committing himself out of this place were slim, but he always had that to go back home to. The girl was probably twelve by now since Carter had a bad case of forgetting names and dates...but at least it was still a life he had and still could have.

"When did he take it?" I asked.

"A week ago, ago," whispered Carter, rubbing his face. Then out of no where, he screamed: "HE TOOK IT AWAY!"

His shout made me jump a foot in the air and I quickly backed against the door. Carter then resolved to sadness, crying his eyes out.

_So that's what Lori meant __when she said the patients were crying by morning._

I frowned at the situation, not at Carter, who was lost in his own grief. I sympathized his case—it was as though he lost his daughter all over again, and I pitied that soul for it. I shook my head...I'd get that picture back for him.

When I walked out of the cell, I closed the door behind me, keying in the code that would keep him in there. I didn't really need to worry about Kart Carter; he was lost in his own deep, tearful reverie. I shook my head at the lad, and then continued to the next person in line.

Calypso and Medusa each had their own simple reactions. While Calypso found my sudden appearance both quaking and excitable, Medusa's feelings towards me were a bit on the neutrally bad side. She could take or leave my presence just as bad as she could kill me right then. I smiled at the ladies, however, resigning to the fact that we were on equal grounds, considering our equal gender.

The next several patients were those that weren't so popular among the staff—repeat offenders, regular schizo's, and the type who just said nothing at all. When I got to the end of the hall, I looked into Victor's cell. For some reason, I smiled when he appeared at the door, smiling at me in return.

"Well, there's a sight I don't get to see everyday," Victor mused, smirking at me. "What's with the smile, lamb chop? Did you finally recover your feelings for me?"

"I don't have feelings for you, Victor," I replied calmly. "If anything, I hate you with all my might."

"God, I love hearing you talk," Victor returned wistfully. "Tell me you hate me again—that always gets me going."

I smiled at him—why was I fucking smiling at this guy? Maybe I was just in too good of a damn mood, because I was back at the job that I loved and hated at the same time. Sometimes, I wondered what feeling I felt most about this place. When Victor wrapped his hands around the bars, he simply winked.

"How's that shoulder?" asked Victor. "I bet the scar's not as bad as the one I gave you—the ones I give are always memorable."

I rolled my eyes—I should have known that the patients of any level would hear the rumors by passerby nurses or visitors in general. The nurses on Level 2 were so talkative that they needn't be near a person's cell for them to hear it, let alone find out. If anything, the maximum security prisoners had gotten around in a tightly knit sewing circle in the back court of the hospital and that's where the rumors had started.

"They're memorable," I commented to Victor.

"Boy, you must have some nice heroin stuck up your fine ass to be talkin' to me like that," Victor said with a bright grin on his face. "You gotta give me the name of your dealer—I'm anxious to do business with him when I get out."

"You mean 'if'." I repeated.

"Right," he snorted. "'IF'. I forget, you think this place will hold us."

"I'd sure hope so," I responded. "Otherwise, you and I would have an ordeal."

"I was hoping the word you were going for was gonna be 'or_gie_.'"

I shook my head, saying, "Sorry, Victor. I'm not in _that_ of a good mood."

Victor shrugged: "Maybe some other time?"

I chuckled evilly, "Maybe 'never'."

Victor shrugged again, saying, "Hey, ya never know." He walked back to his bed and laid down for the night.

I turned around to move to Joker's cell, observing the man through the window. In his cell, Joker was lying on his back, longways down the bed. One leg was hooked over the knee of the other, and his bare foot was aimlessly moving up and down as he hummed some random song I couldn't recognize.

_What a bastard_, I thought.

In a place where he was deemed and treated like a prisoner, he might as well been acting like a guest. I envied him for that freedom in his mind. Sometimes, I deeply hated him for it. But ode to my curiosity...

I placed my key into the door, keyed in the access code, and then opened the door, closing it on my way inside. I let it close behind me.

"Come to do another round of exercise, Bolton? I really don't have the—oh, it's _you_."

I smiled when he turned his head as he glanced at me and not the person he had been expecting. Seeing me, he sat up with his feet on the floor and grinned broadly.

"You are _definitely_ not him." Joker said smoothly.

"Sorry to disappoint," I replied.

"Disappoint? Oh, not at all." Joker returned. "You know, he told me you'd be coming in for the night but honestly, I thought he was just playing mind games with me."

I walked towards Joker, who raised his eyebrows at me curiously. I sat beside him on the bed, looking underneath briefly for any contraband, per my duties, then looked at him pointedly.

"Did you believe him?" I asked curiously.

Joker licked his both of his scars in two quick darts of his tongue, then half-smiled in my direction.

"Not really. So, you see why I'm so sur_prised_."

"Well," I uttered lightly, "The best prize is a surprise."

Joker emitted a quiet chortle, saying, "Who told you that?"

"My father—if I had one." I returned.

"Mm, is Daddy still alive?"

"No," I said. "He's gone."

"Gone _where_?"

"I don't know—dead or alive, I still wouldn't know."

Joker giggled, saying, "Ooh, having some unresolved daddy issues, are we?"

I narrowed my eyes at him but Joker wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by my glower. Instead, he gave a quick laugh saying, "Oh, don't be so _serious_, Ka**t**e. Besides, what's the fun in talking about all your relative issues if I don't get to poke fun, hm?"

He glanced out the window pointedly, saying, "I'm guessing you heard how Bolton took away Carter's ol' painting, hm?"

"Yeah," I said. Joker would have heard Carter's cry of grief earlier—I figured everyone did.

"Might wanna get that back," Joker stated lightly: "Carter's a simple goat, but I wouldn't owe it to him to offer my backside—he'd be chewing on it; it's the quiet ones, you know, that you have to look out for and..." Apparently, that was his statement, for he wiggled his eyebrows as if that was the end of it.

I ignored his comment, or rather attempted. He stood to his feet and sat on the other side of me. I watched him carefully, uncertain of his intentions, but at this point, who was I to be nervous?

"Tell me about Dad," Joker instructed.

"Why?"

"Because, per our agreement, I'm sure you're not here for an unscheduled visit," Joker said, grinning at me. "And if you are, well then...aren't _I_ the lucky man."

"I don't know why I'm here," I replied.

"Mm, you mean you don't know why you're here, other than the reasons your job has to offer?" Joker corrected. He touched the hem of my sleeve, pulling it over my right shoulder so as to see the scar that would be left on my skin. He traced it with his thumb and I shivered under the physical contact.

_My god, Kate, if he can do this to you with just his thumb, what would you do if..._

"How's the shoulder?" asked Joker, smirking at me. "I hear you had some trouble with a patient."

"No trouble I couldn't handle," I remarked bracingly.

"Evidently, he was a bit _more_ than you can handle," Joker pointed out, touching the scar again. He narrowed his eyes in observation, then smiled at me: "I hear you saved a little nurse from the same fate—how _kind_ of you."

"I was doing my job. Now stop touching me."

Joker chuckled: "I have a really hard time coming to terms with the idea that you don't want me to touch you. I mean," (he indicated the door) "why are you here?"

"I'm doing a cell block check."

Joker blinked and said, "Are you kidding me?"

I couldn't help but giggle at his response. It felt great to giggle—or laugh, for that matter.

He rolled his eyes, about to get to his feet and leave me to my hilarity, but I didn't give him the chance. When I watched him about stand up, I took him by the shoulders and followed my impulsive desires to the floor, pinning him down. He let out a breathy laugh—a mix between amusement and having been shoved onto his back on the cold tile.

"I think you might have an impulse control problem," Joker voiced from below me.

"Isn't that what you want?"

"Well, see, that's an interesting question," Joker stated. "What—"

I shoved my mouth onto his, not bearing for another ramble of what I wanted or what he wanted. When he placed his hands on my hips, I moved them on either side of his head, pinning them down while I defied my morality, which was screaming at me to stop.

_Kate, your job._

_ Kate, your husband._

_ Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate..._

"Ooh," Joker purred in the middle of what I considered a kissing scene that the French could admire, "actually, I like your impulsive side." He lifted his head, taking me into another battle of dominance within my mouth; when I responded, he added: "I think you came into my room, thinking about this, didn't you?"

I broke the kiss, and narrowed my eyes at him, attempting to deny any of this. My morality voices were screaming to get out, to run and never look back, to pretend it was only a weakness and I could make up for it for another five years. I looked at the Joker with the worst contempt I could find.

"I'm not like this," I muttered.

I got off him, stepping away.

"I don't do this," I whispered.

Joker sighed, getting to his feet.

"I'm not impulsive," I muttered. "I'm in control. I'm in control..."

"Mmm," Joker mused from behind me. "Maybe that's your problem."

I turned around to say otherwise but Joker grabbed my shoulders and slammed my back on the bed; I bounced on the springy mattress, but gravity and Joker held me down. I looked at him, surprised with a bit of fear quaking in my chest, but the shakiness I felt in my legs and body was a feeling I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't fear that caused my heart beat faster than a hammer, and felt in the pulse on my neck. No...this was something I had never experienced at all.

_Excitement._

"You're trying to control things," Joker uttered quietly. "And the idea of helplessness scares you. That's your fear."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Maybe not," Joker stated lightly, "but you're afraid of this situation. Aren't ya, Ka**t**e?"

I stared at him, unable to respond.

"Afraid to do what your little husband makes sure doesn't happen, hm?" Joker challenged darkly.

I reached up to bat him away, but he snatched my hands and placed them above my head. I cringed slightly at the small discomfort felt in my healing shoulder, but that was easily countered by lust I had for this display of dominance.

"Afraid to be domineered, aren't you, Kate?" Joker breathed.

We were close enough to kiss, and that made breathing hard. What was more, I was _extremely_ aware that I was on his bed, in his room...in his territory. And I was also very aware that our bodies bore no distance between them.

"No." I muttered.

"No?" repeated Joker. "I can bet money, Kate, that you're the man in the relation_ship_ in which you so desperately attempt to escape."

"No..."

Joker smirked at me: "I'm not talking bad about your husband, Kate—no, no, I'm sure he's a _fine_ man. Obviously, he has the brains, going to law school and all, but for some reason, I doubt that things are really interesting in the sack." He licked his scars thoughtfully: "I think _you _always have to be the one to start things."  
"Wrong." I lied.

"Am I?" Joker returned knowingly. "Always the one that has to come up with the changes, but from what I know and hear about Gary, you two do the same boring thing over and over. And let me guess, he's on top."

I rolled my eyes: "If you say so."

"I know so," Joker drawled. "He can be the top, but I doubt he's spinning you in the right places."

I stared at him, my mouth open—I was stumped by his turn of phrase, even more shocked by the fact that Joker just stated Gary wasn't sexually spontaneous. He was right, of course, but I didn't expect it to be said in such a way.

"Do the same thing over, over, and over again." Joker drawled. "And you don't even get to be the broad, hm?"

I rolled my eyes again and said, "I'm on the bottom—I'm the broad."

Joker giggled: "You think a man's a man just because he's on the top?"

"Aren't _you_ on the top?" I retorted plainly.

Joker smirked at me: "Well, I deserve to be on top."

"Like Gary..." I muttered.

"No, no, no," Joker returned immediately, "that's not the same thing."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Joker responded seriously. He brought his mouth to my ear. I shivered when he licked my earlobe. "A man takes charge, Doll Face. If you're the one calling all the shots," (he kissed my jaw with his tongue) "How does that appeal to your natural desire for subjugation?"

I stared at him, a simple glower that could scare another person or wayward a man off me but Joker simply smiled at me in turn.

"You _want_ to be dominated," Joker uttered knowingly. "All women do."

"I don't want to be dominated," I retorted.

"That's because you don't know what submission feels like, Pet." Joker drawled. He smirked at me: "So afraid to lose control, to let go—I wonder if that's _your_ influence, or your husband's."

"Why are you constantly referring to him?" I asked coldly.

"I like knowing you prefer me over him," Joker reasoned as though this was most obvious. "Gives me a nice, warm fuzzy feeling."

Joker smirked at me when I rolled my eyes. I started to move away from him, but Joker kept me down on his bed.

"Wanna know what submission feels like, Kate? Hm?"

"I don't..."

"Yes, you do." Joker declared before I could get a word in.

The stern statement made me stop in mid-sentence, staring at him. I would have been offended if someone had interrupted me in the middle of my statement but I was actually thoroughly aroused by it.

"See, Kate?" Joker purred. "You _like_ being told what to do, don't you?"

I bit my lip when I felt his hand release my wrist, but it lurked between our bodies; I felt it again on my hip.

"I..." I began but I felt words befall me.

I was used to a simple touch and go scheme before sex—the peck on the mouth, the kiss on my neck, and then there was penetration. Gary first introduced me to the world of sex, but foreplay wasn't ever on the schedule of things to do before sticking it in. So when I felt Joker's hand move over the material of my pants, between my legs, I didn't know what to do.

Joker was perceptive.

He smiled and said knowingly, "Hard to compare one to another when you've only had one, huh?"

I gazed at him icily.

"You don't get to—" I began.

Joker interrupted me with a hard kiss; his mouth shoved hard enough on mine that it almost hurt, but I liked it all the same. His tongue burrowed between my lips without my consent, but I didn't mind the intrusion.

"It's time someone taught you how to let go," Joker stated in mid-kiss.

"I don't want to let go," I mumbled a small protest.

When I felt his hand unbutton my pants and slip under them, I was both afraid and excited. I felt his hand between my legs, skin-on-skin as he moved inside my underwear. I reached down to stop him but he took both hands in his, pinning them above my head. He moved his knees between my legs to keep them apart.

I felt what he described as 'helplessness', and my option was to submit; whether that was by will or resistance was my own choice.

"Stop..." I muttered—my voices begged me to say it, to stop this insanity.

His hand cupped my sex; I felt wet, and I'm sure he knew it too. The smirk he gave me sent me all the clues.

"Do you really want me to stop, Kate?" Joker returned skeptically.

I bit my lip.

"Uhm..." I uttered uncertainly.

_Tell him to stop._

_ No, do it, do it! You've never felt this much excitement—do it for yourself, KATE COME ON._

_ You know this wrong._

_ But it feels great._

_ It's wrong!_

_ BUT, _**_BUT_**_..._

"I don't know," I returned finally.

Joker smirked at me, chuckling, "You are too precious. You want me to stop this, you tell me when."

Into my sex, he thrust in two fingers and I do believe I could have died and went to heaven with how great it felt. If I had attempted to lie through my teeth, I'd have been betrayed by the uplifting movements my hips had begun. Joker chuckled, putting his hand over my mouth when I damn near screamed in bliss—I found my hands were no longer restrained, but I didn't stop him.

"Oh my god..." I was muffled by his hand—and the very idea of this just made me more adamant.

His fingers wriggled inside of me in a 'come-hither' motion, fast, and constant. My eyes rolled in the back of my head, my back arched beautifully, and every part of my being was pulled into a sense of welcomed release. I felt my control being taken—but not in a sense I felt threatened. I still hung onto it though, moving my hands down to stop him from making me lose what little self-sense I had.

"Come on, Kate," Joker growled, "Let go."

"No..." I muttered. "I can't..."

"Mm, you can—you just _won't_."

Joker leaned over me, his mouth over mine to muffle what moans I couldn't hide. His fingers inside began moving in and out in a thrusting motion; my hips betrayed me, moving up and down per his ministrations. His free hand moved to my front; I felt the buttons being undone, and then his hand on my breast, kneading...groping.

I stopped fighting it. I stopped fighting _him_.

"I don't want this," I whispered. I looked at him, "I want _you_."

Joker smirked at me. I felt a feeling between desperation and limitation. I wanted more, right now, right here—no questions asked. As if he read my mind, Joker stood on his knees and shamelessly pulled down my pants and underwear down my legs. After doing so, he pulled down his pants.

I glanced at him, uncertain if I would actually pull through this—my reasoning behind this thought was that there was more there than what I saw of Gary. I didn't get to contemplate if I'd be split in two for very long.

Joker placed his hands between my thighs and spread my legs for me. I moaned—Joker was right; I enjoyed my submission.

"You're not going to have any say when I get started," Joker stated as he moved on top of me.

"Good." I said. "Then I don't expect you to stop."

Joker smirked at me, pleased by my dangerous answer, but I couldn't be swayed to turn back. His balance was incredible, steadied by his forearms on either side of my shoulders. I wrapped my legs around his waist when the first thrust damn near pushed me off a cliff. When he moved inside a second time, it still caught me off guard, but I wasn't so shocked. It felt wonderful—_he_ felt great

. "Moan for me," Joker ordered.

The stern tone, the dark voice...I didn't need much coaxing when he pushed inside again. Hearing my sounds, Joker sighed pleasurably. When he moved inside me again, he went all the way to the hilt, and I whimpered in need as the thrusts were unprecedented; I couldn't guess his next move like I could with Gary...it was unpredictable...but I liked it.

The pace became faster as I adjusted to him. Pain there was, but I felt the pleasure counteract it.

"Oh god..." I mumbled.

Joker lowered his mouth to my neck and I equally yelped and moaned when I felt him bite me. Hearing the mix of pain and pleasure, Joker purred, "Mmm, I'm gonna have fun playing with _you_."

_Ah, Joker liked dirty talk...why am I not surprised? _

_ Then again..._

I grew used to the pace, and now I wanted something harder. Seeing that it was Joker, not Gary, I chanced that I would actually get what I wanted, not what was fine with the man. My hands moved to his hair and I pulled...hard. I expected a complaint about how rough I was being, but instead, I heard him moan. I smiled—so I wasn't the only one who liked to rough house.

"Harder..." I murmured—I could feel it building inside of me, something I hadn't felt. It was a gradual feeling of desperation, an intensity that I couldn't satisfy until I was completely ready to release. My breathing was becoming erratic, and my attempts to muffle my moans (to keep silent from the nurses and staff and patients outside) made it harder.

Joker evidently felt my intramuscular frame beginning to lose their tension, for he grinned at me knowingly. He knew I was edging—or maybe it was because my nails were digging and dragging from his shoulders to his back. I had a feeling I was drawing blood, but Joker didn't seem too bothered by it; in fact, he welcomed the pain with a pleasurable groan.

"You're something else," Joker chuckled, but his small laugh became a low growl of imminent bliss when I bit his shoulder.

He burrowed into me harder as I begged, owing to my wishes. I wanted him, I _needed_ him, in such a way I never wanted more to be penetrated by another human being. I wanted to be controlled, and dominated, and he offered a chance for me to lose any type of grasp I had.

I was still trying to hold on, however, by no intention of my own. A part of me willed for that control—keep it in your palm, Kate, don't ever let it go! Don't let it go! Don't!

"Don't..." I mumbled. "Stop."

Joker sighed, thinking perhaps I was trying to convey disagreement with the situation.

"Don't stop..." I finally managed in one sentence. "Please...don't..."

Joker heard my small cries for release. He felt my fingers move up and down his body, finally grabbing his hips so keep him moving. I lost whatever dignity I attempted to restrain when I said I'd do anything just as long as he'd finish what he started. So when he heard this, Joker thrust inside with no regard.

His hand shoved over my mouth when I began moaning in small, unpredictable screams—with each push, I lost a little control so finally when I could crawl to the top of a metaphorical blissful mountain, I was pitched off by my own desperate need to fly.

And fly, I did.

The orgasm I experienced was one that almost hurt—my body was thrown to euphoric spasms. My fingernails broke the skin on Joker's back, and my knees buckled, keeping him inside of me. While I felt these affects, I was deeply aware that Joker had reached his peak; the sounds he emitted made me come a second time.

When the euphoria had passed, I became aware that the both of us were sweating. He pulled out of me, smiling sheepishly.

"See," Joker said, slightly panting, "A little impulse problem never hurt anyone."

I smiled faintly, saying, "Your job isn't on the line."

Joker shrugged, handing me my pants and underwear. I took them. I stood to my feet, pulling on both while I watched Joker put on his own pants. I smirked at him though, unable to hide it.

Joker got to his feet, smiling back at me.

"What's with the smile?" he asked.

"What, _you're_ smiling," I replied defensively.

"I'm _always_ smiling," Joker said, indicating his scars. "It's part of my charming personality."

"Oh yeah, sure," I uttered.

I moved across to walk out of the room, but Joker caught my arm and pulled me back inside; he touched his mouth on mine, kissing gently at first but one thing led to another, and before I could pull myself back, I was kissing him back, even harder if that was possible. He was caught off guard when I pushed him against the wall, taking handfuls of his uniform. He grunted with the impact, but smiled just the same.

"Did you enjoy your_self_, hm?" Joker questioned; he wore a look of conceit, but I suppose he had the right to do so.

"Yes." I returned. "I'll more than happily do it again."

"That's not something I thought I'd hear from a security guard," Joker drawled. He shrugged: "But I'm a busy man, I'll have to look at my schedule."

"Fine," I said smoothly. "You get your secretary to meet with my secretary, then we'll talk business and then maybe get to the finer lines of this deal."

Joker giggled: "You have a sense of humor, I like that."

"Great, because my personality fucking sucks."

Joker smirked: "Dirty mouth, too—you're just turning out to be a fine prize, aren't ya, Katie Baby."

"It sounds weird coming from you," I uttered. "Sounds weird coming from Victor. Maybe it's just a weird nickname."

"No, no," Joker remarked. "_I'm_ weird—Victor's just delusional."

I smirked: "I think you're _both_ psychos."

Joker lowered his hand to my butt and pinched it. I squeaked.

"You'd sound more in the right if you weren't fucking one," Joker pointed out. He wiggled a finger at me: "Bad cop."

I rolled my eyes saying, "I'm going now."

"Have fun with your rounds, Officer," Joker stated. "Come back soon—I always enjoy your company."

Spoken in an eerily calm tone, I shivered...but fear was far from being the reason I did so.


	20. Witching Hour

**I'd Been Wrong Before**

Author's Note: I apologize for the excruciatingly late update; Many times I was about to start another chapter but I hate being even _half_-tired when I write; If I'm not at my most optimal level of creativity, I don't write. So thankfully, the weekend has given me a chance to put all my energy in this; Thank you for your patience 3

–

**Chapter Twenty: Witching Hour**

/

At midnight, I deemed it the best time of the 6p-6a shift to have lunch. My mother called it the 'Witching Hour', in which (no pun intended) witches would come out of their caves and swarm around the country, looking for bad girls and boys who had stayed up past their bed time, or who had done something extremely horrendous to warrant such a cruel fate that would come upon them if the witches were to find them. While my mom never went as far as to _explain_ what happened to them, as a child I was always under the impression it would be something too terrifying the children themselves would not speak of it anyway, and that's why the parents never really knew _just_ what happened to their kids at midnight.

If you had known my mother and her odd personality, I would not have to tell you that I was so drawn into the mistaken belief that I'd be killed at the witching hour, I made it to bed even before the clock struck nine o'clock. Aside from fearing the witches with tall black hats, bellowing ebony cloaks, high-pitching banshee-like cackling, and brazen brooms, I was terrified of my mother even more, fearing her punishment if she ever found out I was staying up past my bedtime.

"What are you thinking about?"

I was awoken from my riveting thoughts by Cullson, who'd been sitting in front of me the entire time in the cafeteria room—not in the space in which the visitors frequently ate and talked to their loved ones, but in the one that was reserved for patients. The floor and ceiling was an unwelcoming khaki color, and the chairs were the same; the white walls were whiter, but I reckoned if I had to sit in a place that offered colorful delusions, I may become crazy. Did you know the Vietnamese felt that our white was their black? White was death to them, as black is death in similar to Americans...now I know what they feel.

Whether or not that the Vietnamese were terrified of going into our white hospitals was puzzling to me if it was logical or a rumor. I wouldn't really know; a friend told me that back when I was in high school, when I'd reported my fifteen-year-old self had gone to the same building for emergency surgery on my appendix—but that's for another time.

"Katelynn?"

I looked up at Cullson, who was thoughtfully eating a box of chocolate. It was his only lunch break, and that's what he wanted for lunch apparently. In turn, I glanced at his small poor choice of a meal so I offered him the extra deli sandwich I'd brought from home. Cullson declined politely, so I offered an answer to his question instead.

"I'm not thinking about much," I said softly.

"You've been awfully quiet since your first rounds," Cullson replied, gesturing to me in general. He smiled: "Did one of the patients get to you?"

"No," I replied. _Not in the same way _**_you're_**_ thinking of, buddy._

"Did you have a fight with Gary?" offered Cullson, who seemed hell bent on cure whatever disease was riddling my mind with deep thoughts—so deep that I didn't realize that he'd been speaking to me this entire time; in response to my lack of dialogue, Cullson had asked the question.

"I always have fights with Gary," I returned unhappily.

The sandwich I held in my hand, half-eaten, was placed back on my tray with lack of a will to force myself to eat anymore of it. I didn't want food. I wanted...well, I was uncomfortable thinking that way in front of Cullson, so I smiled at him, dismissing the pending emotional spill for another time.

"My mind is all over the place," I stated the obvious. He smiled appreciatively: "But thanks for asking."

Cullson shrugged: "You're the conversationalist. If you don't speak, we're a quiet bunch."

I laughed at his joke (or was he serious?), and that made me feel less than trivial. I'd been thinking about Lyle and his security measures, about how Lori would stand with me along with Ellen and Cullson if I were to go against one of the most well-respected (and feared) men in Arkham. I was thinking of Gary, and how things between us used to be so great—while some of the time we would argue, bicker, and talk about how we were a lot kinder to one another when we weren't married, there were times I still remembered that we actually clicked. These days...

Well, these days, I wasn't sure why I married him.

"Katelynn?"

I blinked, looking up to see Cullson smiling again.

"You're distracted." He pointed out.

"Yeah," I replied. "What's new?"

"It was an observation," Cullson returned lightly. He shrugged: "I've never seen you so distracted. What are you _really_ thinking of?"

"What am I _really_ thinking of?" I returned in the same tone in which he asked. I leaned forward, smiled widely, and said, "I'm thinking of having an affair."

Cullson frowned: "Please tell me that you are joking."

I shrugged: "What if I wasn't?"

"If you are joking, I'd say you have a bad sense of humor," Cullson stated coolly. He crossed his arms, "If you aren't, well..."

"Well...?" I encouraged. "'Well', _what_?" I smirked: "Would you really tell Gary? Who would you tell?"

"That would not be my place," Cullson resigned unhappily. "But if you were having an affair I'd look at you differently, and we would probably not be friends anymore."

I smiled politely, saying, "Well, Cullson, you're a good man. A very good guy, no doubt about that." I drank a large gulp of my chocolate milk, and raised my carton to him: "And you can be a little kinder to me now; no worries, I'm not going to have an affair."

Cullson cracked a smile, saying, "Good. For a minute, you looked serious."

"Did I?" I chuckled, smirking. "I wouldn't know."

"No," chortled Cullson, who was now put in a good humor, ode to my lie, "You certainly take nothing seriously."

I offered my last deli sandwich, explaining I'd not eat it when I barely finished my other one. I looked at Cullson thankfully when he ate the second deli sandwich and the rest of mine. I was taught that food should never go to waste, if it did Karma would catch up to you—in some way, some how, in some manner. You'd never know, of course; that was the funny thing about Karma. Mom always said that the worst Karma is the kind you don't expect to get you...until you realize it's too late.

Like the Witching Hour. It could creep on you without letting you know, and before you know it, you hear witches knocking on the opposite side of your bedroom door, demanding that their will and laws be obeyed to the highest degree of slavery; their cackling heard softly so as to not awaken your parents, and the tip of the brooms poke the wooden door, on which reads your name...so you know they've not mistaken you for another child.

"Thanks for the sandwich, Kate," Cullson said, rubbing his tummy.

"Well, Mom always said 'waste not, want not'." I said, smirking at him. "She'd be in a rage if she found out I took more with me than what I could eat."

Cullson widened his eyes.

So I asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Well," said Cullson, "I'm just shocked."

"About?"

"You never talk about your personal life," Cullson stated. "Vaguely, yes, about Gary, but I've never once heard you speak about your mother."

I shrugged: "No need to worry; if you say her name thrice, she won't pop out of a map like Betelgeuse."

Cullson chuckled, wiping his forehead mockingly as he said, "Phew! A relief, right?"

"Oh yeah..." I reassured, nodding adamantly.

Despite my good humor, the talk of witches in my head and the literal talk of Betelgeuse's sudden appearance made me jump when I heard the grandfather clock in the lobby chime twelve times for the Witching Hour. A part of me was anxious that the witches of mythical origin would find me.

"I'm going to take a walk," I said, smiling reassuringly when Cullson looked at me oddly. "It might clear my head."

"Do you want company?"

"Nah," I said, waving at him. "I wouldn't want them to get you too."

"Who?"

I shrugged dismissively as I said, "You know, the demons."

"The Witching Hour myth?" Cullson asked incredulously. "You still believe that mantra?"

"Nope, but it doesn't count against me by having a small amount of paranoia. That's how our race has lived thus far, and I don't plan on breaking that kind of instinct." I told him, putting away my tray and the like. As I walked out of the lobby, Cullson advised I stick around in any case a patient decided to do the same. I rolled my eyes, laughing at his tease, and headed out in the parking lot.

Despite my laughter at my silliness, I couldn't forget the rhyme my mother told me.

_Witches, witches, with spinal stitches_

_Their skin all white with black and red itches;_

_their broomsticks tip tat on your bedroom door_

_waiting to which to be answered and furthermore_

_give punishment due to the child, who_

_has stayed up past bed hour, so sour._

_In the time you awaken, in the time you open_

_the door, remember what your mother had said-_

_All children who don't ever go to bed_

_will wind up in the morning, asleep, and dead._


	21. Leverage

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

Chapter Twenty-One: Leverage

/

At four o'clock, I did another sweep of the parking lot. One, to get another trip of that cool November air. Two: I just liked the outdoors, and the third was to simply be alone. I wanted to relive every moment that started from yesterday evening to the present—my mind rehearsed what happened on Level 2...the start of something so forbidden, and yet it felt soo...

_You say 'right', and I'm going to give you the worst migraine known to man._

I smiled sarcastically, reassured that my morality was back on its usual track; it'd disappeared a few hours ago while having reminisced about Joker and me. Not as in 'we' but what happened in the room itself. Being pinned against the bed, a quick thought of morality, and then before I could completely control myself, I lost that very same control in minutes.

In that time, I did let go...and the feeling was soo...

_Fine, say it. Say it—you know you want to say it, but I won't let you. Na na na na na._

Now my mind was playing childish mocking games. I shook my head, recognizing it. I finished searching the front parking lot, armed with my flashlight which I moved aimlessly just to take in my surroundings and started down the sidewalk to search the back of the building. Behind the Arkham Asylum was a very large courtyard, a man-made defense to keep the lawbreaking fuckers inside and away from the public. Despite there being a very large gate that completely surrounded the entire grounds, there was a second fence, electrical, that held the patients inside a ball-playing court.

The size of the thing was half a foot ball field, free to accompany any sizable patient three times their weight. Exercising equipment such as weights, a concentric circle on which to run and time one's self, and a basket ball court were placed within the fence to keep the able-bodied people physically fit...my guess was that not only did Arkham wish to remind these people that they were fenced twice over inside this fucking place, but they _also_ were **encouraged** to maintain their physical shape in order to continue their incapacitation by means of living forever.

Arkham had a sick sense of humor.

I took my badge, regardless of my unhappiness with the court yard, and scanned my badge over the machine that was latched onto the door. There was some type of metal inside this machine to keep it nice and cool while the rest of its appendages were hot, and lit with electricity. I could practically feel my hairs lifting off my body when I scanned my badge inside the contraption. It made a quick ding, which gave me approximately twenty seconds to hull ass inside the gate, else I'd be singed.

I propelled inside, closing the door immediately; just as I pulled my hand from the handle, I heard the 'zap' and then the fence became electrically charged once more. I hated the idea of a patient getting too close to the fence, longingly placing their fingers through the wiring just to get a little closer to a freedom they'd never have...it would be maddening.

I turned to look around the court, obviously seeing no one. There were no hiding places in such an open space, but I wasn't too contemplative. Years ago, I learned my lesson—not with just Victor, but with my mother too.

Odd how she's come to play a major part in my job these days. God, I could imagine what she would say:

"_Kate, I told you not to go wandering around in men's rooms—you have no idea what they're thinking. But I do; they're wicked, and sinful. You know what their mind is always on, Kate? They're devils in charming clothing, and they only want one thing. Yes—you know what it is. You're too young to know it now..."_

I rolled my eyes. I was seventeen at the time, and had first met Gary. He was my childhood boyfriend, and my adult husband.

"_Normally, no good can come from a man who doesn't make their bed each morning, much like a woman is useless to have around if she doesn't dress decently. Do you know what happens to little girls who serve men in such __heinous__attire?"_

My answer at the time was that the girls whom do this become whores, and Mom liked the answer so much, she gave me a cookie before dinner. That was a big thing.

I thought of how Mom warmed up to Gary quicker than I'd ever seen her warm up to anyone. She approved of him when we went to his house to visit his parents; they were just as finnicky about their cleaning as Gary, and sure enough, he made his bed, and happily lain in it. Mom approved of Gary...sometimes, I wondered why.

"_I did my best to make you the best girl a man could have, Kate. And now look what you've done..."_ God, I could hear her opinion of the matter in which I'd placed myself this time. _Don't say the "Lord's name in vain, Kate—you'll get black spots on your tongue and no man wants to kiss a woman whom has black spots on her tongue."_

I glanced at the weight lifting equipment, smiling at the small thought of Joker lifting them. He was awfully muscle-y...and...

_Kate! _

I frowned at my mind. Then I frowned even deeper, realizing that whenever my mind scolded me, I had my mother's voice in my head. Why did I need that kind of epiphany? Why must...

_Oh don't complain, Kate. The Jews had it worse than you. _

I blinked...well, that definitely wasn't my mom speaking; that was myself.

I walked across the court yard, looking at the large door that separated a semi-freedom to the four walls that surely did not build a home, except for the Joker.

"_The Lord knows what you've been doing, Kate. And He is not pleased. The Witching Hour will come, and you'll have to worry about more than just witches, Kate. Salvation will come to you in the darkest of times; hopefully sooner..."_

"Oh shut up, Mother," I muttered, shaking my head. "And get out of my head."

"Who are you talking to?"

I had opened the door to enter and was startled to see Lyle. He was dressed in jeans, black shirt, and he wore a holster belt with a flash light, gun, and a walkie talkie. At that moment, I realized I'd forgotten to take the walkie with me, smiling at him innocently though when I saw him.

"Just my demons," I offered. I paused, then added, "And my mother."

"Your mother?" repeated Lyle. He looked past me, curious to my nature, but seeing no one, he watched me suspiciously: "Your mother is here?"

"Not in the building," I replied. "Just in here." I poked my forehead. "Like a fucking tumor."

"I see..." Lyle replied slowly.

I glanced at my watch, noticing the time. So naturally, I inquired his early appearance.

Lyle allowed me inside; we walked alongside one another, down the hallway in the direction of the Camera Room...my bad, Lyle's _office._

"I got a call from Lori Heart," Lyle began professionally gesticulating like so, "about a strange occurrence on Level 2."

"Strange occurrence?" I repeated. "In an asylum? No way...get out of here. Shut the front door."

"Stop with the sarcasm," Lyle replied, but he smiled none the less. "The call was ridiculous."

"So why didn't she call me?"

"If I see correctly, you're not in possession of a walkie talkie," Lyle pointed out.

I shrugged: "I was only out for a few minutes."

"Well, Lori wanted to get in touch with one of us right quickly; so I responded. Since obviously you can't be trusted to..."

"Now, hold on one fucking second," I stated, stopping in mid-step.

Lyle turned around casually, saying, "What?"

"I can be trusted with anything," I declared heatedly. "I wasn't off the grounds, you know; I was doing my usual rounds. And if there was something so urgent that needed my attention, Lori would have told Cullson and Cullson would have come and gotten me."

Lyle crossed his arms, saying, "You put a lot of reliability on that housekeeper, don't you?"

"He's the only friend I have in this place," I replied icily.

"Am I not your friend?" Lyle asked.

"No." I returned and said nothing in collateral.

Lyle grinned at me, in spite of my statement. While he admired my adherence to our respect between the colleagues, he could clearly see that I wanted nothing more than that. I didn't act like his friend, nor did I care to be one of his posse. Perhaps Lyle was under the illusion that this was something of a love/hate relationship between co-workers, but as I stared at him, unhinged by his disarming smile, Lyle continued to grin.

"You're a piece of work, Richardson. I'll give you that."

"I'm taking that as a compliment." I returned. I smiled ironically, saying, "Whatever Lori Heart has to say though is worth checking into—but I doubt it's an emergency as you claim it to be."

"Just like killing a guy isn't a big deal, right?"

I narrowed my eyes quizzically, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"A week ago," Lyle drawled, "You killed a man. And I let you stay off for a week, not the month of which I'd been advised."

"So?"

"So," Lyle said, "I think you owe me something for being so lenient with you—I mean, I could have put you off for a month without pay, but I didn't. Because killing that crazy patient wasn't such a big deal as most people thought it was going to be—no one cares about a guy who has no family, or friends—we swept it under the rug, like a dust bunny."

I stared at him, crossing my arms slowly: "So what are you asking of me?"

"I'm not asking anything," Lyle returned.

"You must be asking _something_." I stated. I pointed at him: "Your intention is blackmail. I want to know what you have on me."

Lyle indicated for me to follow him. Just for good measure, I kept my flashlight in my hand, holding it tightly so I walked behind him—rather than in front of him where he could hit me over with his own flash light. He led me to the Camera Room, and he sat in his chair. I watched him flick through the video feed on these small televisions, and he placed a finger to one in particular, which shown me walking into Patient 4479's room...and not coming out for another hour. When the video continued, Lyle paused it, revealing a more disheveled me.

Lyle turned in his swivel chair.

"You spend a great deal of time in his room," Lyle said coldly. "Why."

"Why what?"

"Why did you spend an hour in there?" asked Lyle. "You know it only takes twenty minutes to upturn a room—thirty, if the patient is uncooperative."

"Maybe he was just that," I replied defensively.

Lyle laughed: "Are you kidding me, Katelynn? Are you—the Joker isn't uncooperative around you; he _prefers_ that you search his cell. It takes twenty minutes to search a room—for the next forty minutes, what _else_ are you searching?"

My heart was racing. My fingers were a little sweaty. I crossed my arms coolly, smiling at Lyle.

"What is it to you what I do in a patient's room?"

"I don't want to believe what I suspect, Richardson," Lyle said. "_Especially_ whatever it is that concerns the Joker. He's a fucking psycho—not to mention a..."

"I know what he is," I replied with little candor. "But before you make your accusations open to the public, maybe you oughta take a look at your own skeletons."  
"Beg your pardon?" Lyle scoffed.

"Oh, no need to beg for _my_ pardon—but maybe for everyone else's." I replied callously; I shooed his hands away from the keyboard, keyed in a few numbers of the dates that I'd already investigated, and it shown Lyle walking into several patient rooms, spending an hour inside, holding his flash light as I currently held mine—in a way that depicted a certain arrival of a beat down.

Lyle frowned when his skeletons fell out of his closet, and from underneath his bed. He slowly glowered at me.

"That doesn't prove a thing," said Lyle.

"Gee, according to you, it proves everything concerning myself," I returned coolly. I smirked: "But I have two years of this against you."

Lyle grimaced.

"So where do we go from here?" asked Lyle.

"Wherever you want it to go," answered I.

Lyle gritted his teeth, furious to his defeat. I prided myself on being ready for such an event, and happy I'd gotten this far.

"Are you doing the same thing to him that I do?" Lyle asked curiously.

"Do you think I'd be so keen on telling you? So you'd have verbal proof of what I've supposedly done wrong?" I smirked: "You have nothing on me, Lyle Bolton, and that's just a fact you have to understand. I don't go into rooms and leave bruises on my patients."

Lyle stood to his full height, but I smiled at him viciously.

"I don't go in with a night stick and a flash light, and make my patients cry by the morning. When I go near them, they don't flinch away like an abused puppy." I could hear my voice getting steadily louder as I added: "And I don't take away the only thing keeping a man sane."

Lyle frowned, but the frown upturned into a cold, calculating smile.

"Aw, Carver turned into a tattle tale, didn't he?" chuckled Lyle.

"It's _Carter_," I hissed, "and yes, he did tell me what you did, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Careful, Richardson," snarled Lyle. "I'm still your supervisor."

"For now," I returned. "Until then, I guess I should owe you a kindness for allowing me to work under you, even if it gives me the worst disgust a human being can feel."

"Oh, Richardson, you're a hoot-and-a-half," Lyle chuckled darkly.

I frowned in spite of his sick humor and said, "Now give me Carter's picture. He wants his drawing back."  
"It's in the cabinet." Lyle said, jerking his thumb behind him.

I stepped past him, bending on knee to get the picture but then I realized the cabinet was locked. I frowned.

_Motherfucker._

"Where's the key?" I demanded.

"In a place you'd never find it," Lyle mocked. "I'm glad I had this talk with you, Richardson. It's always a trip when I do."

I glowered at him, saying, "Give me the key, Bolton."

"Nah, I see this as a bit of leverage."

"Leverage?" I replied, not bothering keeping out my spite for the man.

"Yeah," said Lyle, walking to the door. "You have your proof that I've been a bit justifiable towards these people who do wrong on others—most people would be happy to know I'm giving the people just what they want, and deserve. Meanwhile, I get to keep the key."

"How is that leverage?" I snapped.

"I don't know—but it's fun watching you get angry," Lyle snickered. He waved his hand. "Bye, bye, Richardson—be careful around Patient 4479; he's a bit quirky in the mornings. I should know." He shuddered disgustedly, then left with a smile on his face.

"T_he Lord works in mysterious ways, and my Lord is an angry Lord."_

My mother's frequent saying aside, I attempted to go at the cabinet in a barbaric sense but eluding to the fact that it was locked up tight, I felt silly. I sighed, hitting the cabinet drawer with unprecedented anger, and frowned.

"What the fuck am I to do now?" I asked aloud, glaring at the drawer.

"_Do unto others..."_

"Oh god, shut up, Mother." I uttered. In a way, I was glad my mother was dead now—it was bad enough hearing her in the recesses of my mind, needn't I hear her speak to me these days in physical form.

Aside from all of this, I did realize that Lyle's query of Lori Heart's acclaim was false—Lyle had come in early with the full intention of catching me in an act...whatever act he suspected I was guilty of doing.


	22. To Hunt Or Be Hunted

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

**_Author's Note:_** Yes, I'm stirring the plot bowl. Mwuahaha! Joker Blogs has updated with an episode called "Axes and Allies"—watch it, damn it! Joker is so beautiful! :D

XD That said, here's the next chapter!

/

**Chapter Twenty-Two: To Hunt Or Be Hunted**

At five o'clock, I dutifully took my walkie talkie from the break room on Level 1, having no will to be chided a second time about carrying the damn thing by Lyle, who was still around the hospital, somewhere. He was probably looking at the cameras, observing my behavior, to see if I was acting any differently now that his suspicions about my particularly long rounds had been known.

I knew my actions would be speculated, considering fucking a criminal was like Grade A reason for termination, and—depending on the scrutiny of the public—possible Blackgate time. I didn't count on Lyle catching on so quickly, or rather I led him to the opposite conclusion...maybe. He still had his suspicions, I'm sure, just like I was damn sure he kept the key on him to that cabinet, in which held Carter's missed drawing.

If Lyle wanted to play hard ball, then damn it, lay down the score.

_There ya go, Kate. Go against all you stand for _**_and_**_ try to get yourself fired. My goodness, you're turning over a leaf every night you work, aren't you? _

I ignored my chastising thoughts and continued on my way to Level 1 nurse's station, investigating any complaints that required my attention. Most of the time, it was quite calm over there, so when I spoke to Angie (Lori's replacement for Level 1), I didn't dwell on the fact that the redhead had more things to complain about. A frequent martyr, Angie believed the whole world was against her—not in a sense of a paranoid way, but in a way that she had to be the focus of attention so she became a hypochondriac for Karma. Something _always_ was happening to her, whether that was a car breaking down, her three kids getting into trouble, her damn good-looking husband not cooking her dinner right, the trash not being picked up as it picked up normally...I mean, it was always _something_.

"How do you handle it?" I asked her as I was about to leave the floor.

Angie looked at me strangely, saying, "What do you mean?"

"Being down on your luck so many times, and yet, you come to work with a smile on your face," I told her pointedly. I leaned over the counter at which she sat, and said, "It must take a really strong person to be faced with all your misfortune and still come to work with a chip off your shoulder. I mean, that takes a _lot_ of courage—with these people out here, begging for food, and living off the scraps."

Angie frowned, realizing I was mocking her and not playing into her woe-is-me stories.

"My car broke down before I got here," Angie replied coldly. "I was almost..."

"What, robbed?" I offered. "Maybe you were almost mugged—god, why would that happen in a place like Gotham? Why on _Earth_ would someone want to rob you? You only walk into the Narrows with a large expensive fur coat, and then mope about how you don't get enough income..."

"Well, I don't." Angie returned coldly. "And who are you to judge? You don't seem grateful for your _own_ life. I mean—you...you..."

I smiled and said, "I, what, complain? You don't have the luxury of hearing my complaints and sob stories, Redhead. I may not be happy with how my life is going currently, but I don't complain to other people about my problems."

"You don't complain enough," scoffed Angie.

I frowned: "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not at all," Angie returned. "You're a recluse in a butterfly world."

"That doesn't even make any sense!" I returned, staring at her incredulously. "Was that supposed to insult me?"

"Maybe—you certainly took it as an insult," said Angie, turning her head from me to chart on her computer.

I narrowed my eyes, ready to make a good comeback, but Anthony Daves, who worked tonight, placed a hand on my arm, guiding me away from the vindictive little bitch. When we were out of ear shot, Anthony shook his head.

"Don't start anything, Kate." Anthony said quietly.

"Get your hand off me, Tony." I told him softly.

Anthony looked at me, surprised, then slowly released my arm. I straightened my uniform, glaring at Angie vehemently. Oh, the things I wanted to say to that broad. I lifted my head up at Anthony, who smiled gently.

"You might want to work on that anger of yours," offered Anthony, pointing at me.

"I've always been like this," I told him, taking out my walkie talkie and flash light. "Frankly, I'm getting tired of you people holding me back."

Anthony shrugged and then went back to passing out his medication for the patients. I watched after him, regarding his actions as keeping me out of trouble. But truly, I wanted to make Angie feel what true pain is like, hell, give her a scar like the one on my neck and maybe she'd be a little more modest about her situation as I was. I glanced at my watch wistfully, seeing that it was almost five-thirty.

_Better get a move on with those rounds, Kate. It's almost time to give report._

I glowered at Angie, who didn't die as my looks were well intended to attempt, so I resigned to walking out of the nurse's station with hopes that Angie could feel any part of me that radiated dislike. When I went up the stairs, I wasn't surprised to see Lyle waiting for me at the metallic locked double doors. The nurses on Level 2 eyed Lyle's early appearance with some curiosity, then saw my unhappy face—Lori made a shrugging gesture that expressed her puzzlement at his presence.

I shook my head in response that it didn't matter why he was here, just for the fact that I thought his presence was unnecessary. Lori nodded to me, understanding our nonverbal conversation then she rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up in the air; apparently, she agreed too.

"I decided I'm going to do a round with you," Lyle informed me as we entered through the double doors; he'd slid his badge through the scanner, which identified him as Lyle Bolton, and then we'd entered as the doors closed behind us.

"Fantastic," I returned sarcastically. "I miss these moments."

"Stop with the sarcasm," Lyle scolded. "You know it's anger's ugly cousin."

"Great to know," I responded just as ironically as I'd done before.

"What did I just say?" Lyle replied unhappily.

I smiled coldly at him saying, "You want me to drop the only thing that keeps me from hitting you over the head with my flash light?"

Lyle narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously.

"I'm kidding." I admitted, holding up my hands in surrender. "It was a poor attempt at humor."

"Very poor," said Lyle.

We were at the first cell—Kart Carter's. He was asleep in his bed as Lyle opened the door. I frowned when he smirked at Carter, who looked to have cried himself to sleep; there were tears on his cheeks, stained by the many that replaced them. Lyle joined me at the door, looking at me plainly.

"Quite the tamed beast, isn't he?" Lyle commented, holding his hand out to the patient. "If not for my actions, he'd be screaming at people."

"He only screams when you go near him," I hissed. "I wonder why _that_ is."

Lyle frowned: "I'm not having this conversation with you right at this moment."

"Good," I said. "I prefer it."

"We're going to the next cell."

"After you, Sir Bolton." I scoffed.

Lyle closed the door to this cell. We continued to the next one: Medusa's. I opened the door this time with a slide of my badge, and when it opened, I was happy to see Medusa asleep as well. It must have been a late night for these patients; some of them were up as early as three in the morning. Then again, they all could have feigned sleep upon hearing Lyle and me bicker.

If one could recall, Medusa was a pale white woman with every syllable of her being pronounced correctly, and she used no contractions. Her eyes were ice blue, and would freeze a person in place with just the look of her. Seeing her in bed, sleeping in a coffin-like wrap of her blankets, I was grateful she wasn't awake to see Lyle in her room, searching it quietly.

"Don't want to wake Medusa?" I teased, smirking at him.

"It's Madam Gregory," Lyle corrected. "And _no_."

I giggled when he quickly came out of the room, closing the door. To the next cell was Calypso's. I opened the door with my badge, taking care to knock softly on it. Lyle found this behavior odd, considering she was a prisoner, not a guest. At this point, he didn't dare question my technique, as the woman in the bed was idly awake, smirking at us with badly rotting teeth when we entered. I made a small bow when she glowered at Lyle, whose head raised arrogantly in her presence.

"Good morning, Calypso." I told her, smiling lightly.

"Good mohning, Kate."

"In front of me, she's _Officer_ _Richardson_." Lyle addressed coldly.

I frowned at his tone, but a part of me lurched when Calypso's smile faltered as a trace of fear sparked in her eyes. It was a flash of it, but it had been there.

"I'm soy, I didn't 'ealize you wuh even theh." Calypso stated sarcastically.

"We've come to search your cell. Stay where you are at." Lyle ordered, pointing at her. "No funny business."

"I be makin' no business that's funny—you ah the one standing in jeans and a sheht."

I snorted, replacing my unintentional laugh with a cough.

"Search the cell, Richardson," Lyle snapped.

"No need to be pushy," I chided. I looked at Calypso, who smiled when I rolled my eyes as if he was a cranky old goat, rather than a stern supervisor.

"Can I search your room, Calypso?" I asked politely.

"Sho' you can," Calypso returned, gesticulating the room in general.

"Fantastic," I replied enthusiastically. I bent on my knees, searching under the bed, then the drawers and under the dresser. Lyle held a flash light to whatever I was searching but I saw him dip that light into Calypso's face; her gasp of disgust and pain from the bright torch wasn't mistaken, so I glared at Lyle for his unnecessary meanness.

Lyle shrugged.

I looked at Calypso, who frowned at me. I thought she was angry at me for a second, but the look on her face expressed more sympathy than painful anger. I smiled at her reassuringly, but Calypso only lowered her eyes, fearful of what Lyle might do if anything was said. I was about to reach out and touch her hand, but Lyle coughed, so I frowned at the rule of no physical contact, then left the cell quietly.

It continued like this for quite some time until we stopped at the two last cells of the night. Lyle nodded at the door that led to Victor's cell. I glanced through the window to see if Victor was awake or not, but that didn't make a difference. I scanned my badge, my thumb print, then the number in which to get in; as I opened the door, Lyle pulled out his night stick.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed.

"Oh, just doing what you do at these rare hours."

I glared at Lyle when he entered the cell and in the broad darkness, I winced when I heard Victor shout—awakening and to the pain of being hit over the shoulder with a cop's beat stick.

"Close the door." Lyle ordered.

"Bolton, stop! Are you fucking mad!" I snapped, jumping over his back to pull him away from the prisoner. "He's a patient!"

"I said 'shut the damn door'."

Victor was laughing when Lyle attempted to beat him over again. I snatched Lyle's weapon of choice and then shoved him out of the room, quickly shutting the door behind me. Victor was at the window, spitting up blood, but grinning at the two of us like a mad dog, watching his prey befuddle and discern what just happened.

"What the fuck, Lyle!" I shouted, glaring down at him; he was on his back, figuring out how I'd managed to pull him out of there. He weighed twice as much as I did, and he was stronger too.

"You above all should not even give a damn," Lyle growled, getting to his feet.

Lucky for the both of us, the metal doors ahead were steel, and sound proof. I thanked my lucky stars because even though I hated Lyle with all my internal fire, I didn't want to see him get canned like this. I wanted to do the canning, even if it meant putting myself at risk. I smirked when Lyle shook his head and then went to the next cell: Joker's.

"Good morning to you too, Dickhead," Victor drawled from the cell.

I glanced around at him, and he shook his head, saying, "Not you, Zombie. The other Dickhead."

I looked at Lyle, who was shaking his head.

"Open the door." Lyle ordered.

"Yeah," Victor mocked, "Open the _door_."

"Shut up, Zsass," Lyle stated, not looking at the patient behind him.

"Shut up," imitated Victor.

"I said," Lyle growled quietly; he quickly lunged to the opposite side of which I was facing and slammed his hands on either side of the window as he shouted, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

To my surprise, Victor retreated back to his bed, staring at him with wide eyes. My lips parted in the shocking way of Victor's incredible escape from an angry-looking Lyle, who looked deranged and out of his mind with his teeth gritted, lips snarling, nose crinkled, and his eyes ablaze with vengeance.

"Maybe you should sit this one out," I stated as I scanned my badge over the locking system to Joker's cell. "Cool down" I scanned my thumb print. "Take a break," I smirked as I keyed in the code. "That anger will get you in trouble one day."

Lyle turned to me, eyes narrowed.

"Open the door." Lyle threatened. "And that's not a request."  
"Sounds like one," I challenged, smiling deviously. "Wanna bet?"

"I don't gamble."

"Liar," I uttered lightly. I opened the door.

Joker was sitting in bed with his back against the wall. He wore a white tee shirt under the orange uniform top, and I only knew this now because his said uniform top was on his bed. Realizing the temperature in these rooms, I wouldn't blame him—what was Arkham doing? Smoking out his patients?

His legs were crossed in front of him, like a green-haired, scarred Indian; his thoughts were obviously very deep for he didn't even acknowledge us with a giggle or a smile. I looked at Lyle.

"After you, Sir Bolton."

"No, after you, _Bambi_."

I stared at him, incredulously. I hadn't expected that kind of pet name to come out of him, especially one that was so...god, what was the word?

_Provocative? _

Lyle pointed at Joker, saying, "That's his name for you—not mine."

_He calls me 'Bambi'? _

_ Well, there ya go—that's why Lyle suspected you and Joker having some kind of fling. Joker calls you 'Bambi'._

_ Why does he though?_

_ Hey Kate—focus! _

"You'll go into Victor's cell and beat the crap out of him, but you'd rather _me_ do it this time?" I questioned quietly. "No fucking thanks."

"Isn't that what you do when you're in here for an hour?" Lyle questioned, closing the door behind us.

"What makes you think I do anything but my job?" I questioned coldly.

"Well, that aside—right now, as your supervisor, I'm giving you the opportunity to show me just how good you are at your job," Lyle offered coolly. He rubbed his hands together as if washing his hands, and then pulled his night stick out from his holster belt, flipping it so the handle was on my end, and holding it out to me.

"No fucking way," I told him, stepping away from the night stick.

"You want to do this," Lyle breathed. "I can tell. So do it." He offered me the object once more.

"I'm not doing it," I told him coldly.

"Having some second doubts about your morality, Katelynn?" Lyle drawled. He rolled his eyes: "You're one of the best soldiers I have, Richardson, and you're wasting your anger on people like Angie? All these fuckers have done something to warrant a harder time than they have been given, and I'm the man to give what citizens in Gotham deserve—to see these psychos punished correctly."

"I don't care _what_ illusions of grandeur you've acquired," I retorted, "But it doesn't matter because I am _not_ doing this. This isn't me. And it's not you either."

"Oh don't be honorable, not now." Lyle hissed.

"I'm not being honorable," I retaliated. "I'm being in the right. And you're fucking wrong. You're playing with fire and you will get burned."

I was about to add to this moral speech before I was stopped—I heard Joker's low chuckle as he looked up at us with a look of a guest being entertained.

"You two argue like a married couple," Joker drawled, smiling at the both of us. "If I didn't know better, I say the marriage is pretty much over, don't you think?"

"Shut up, no one is talking to you." Lyle snarled.

"Don't tell him to shut up," I retorted. "You think you're about to kick his ass—I think he deserves to be a little cocky."  
Lyle warned: "Richardson..."

"Fuck you, Bolton." I growled. I turned to the door. "You're out of your mind if you think I'm hurting any of these people. Out of your mind—completely bonkers. You're just as crazy as the rest of—ah!"

Just as soon as I'd almost completed that sentence, Lyle took my throat with his hands and pushed my back against the wall. Joker didn't react, in fact, he simply watched us with more amusement than one should have in an insane asylum.

"Don't you _ever_ say that again," Lyle growled. "I'm more sane than any of you in this place combined."  
"That's not saying much," Joker stated from the side lines, giggling at his joke.

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Lyle shouted, glaring at Joker, who shrugged with little persuasion.

Meanwhile, I was very aware that my breathing was getting harder to handle. I pulled over my arm over his forearms and brought it down hard so his grasp on my neck faltered; at his vulnerable state of shock, I rammed my elbow under his chin; as he was stunned, I kicked his groin for equal measure. When he was down, I pushed open the door, and kicked him out, closing the door afterward. I looked at Joker, who smiled at me evenly, as I put my hand on my throat, massaging where I'd been nearly choked.

"Nice to see you again, Bambi."

The pet name practically oozed seduction; and spoken by him, I felt my loins being lit with a flame.._.speaking of playing with fire, right?_

I quirked my eyebrow at him, asking, "Why do you call me 'Bambi'?"

Joker leaned forward with an interest, saying, "It's so nice to see the hunted become the hunters again."

He made a slight bow with his head, smirking at me.

"Excuse me, I have to get ice for my supervisor," I said quietly. I smiled weakly then walked out of the door, closing it on my way out. Discomfort quaked my being at his beautiful phrase, making me feel empowered and in the right for knocking out my own boss, but I loved the approval I'd received from Joker.

I looked to see that Lyle was getting up, holding his junk with a sense of disdain.

"So did I do my rounds correctly?" I questioned arrogantly. "Aren't you happy with my response?"

"Clock out, Richardson. Go home."

"Sure thing, Boss." I replied, saluting him sarcastically. I didn't hold back my laugh as I walked out of the asylum.


	23. Black, White, and Green

**I've Been Wrong Before**

**Author's Note**: Thank you **RealHuntress18, Tracey. Jacoby, **and **SwordStitcher **for your reviews! You have followed me from the beginning of this story (some of you even further back) and I'm making this day Happy Followers And Reviewers Day. Hope you all have a pleasant Sunday, and enjoy this chapter!

/

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Black, White...and Green.**

When I came home at six o'clock sharp, Gary was waiting for me. Not really—he just happened to be sitting at the table in his suit and tie, drinking decaf Folger's from his usual black and white mug. He always said that the only colors that went perfectly together were black and white, for they contrasted one another in all the same ways except on the color spectrum wheel—despite their opposites, they were both placed in a group called 'Neutral', in a sense, they balanced one another...they complemented each other, and furthermore, were a completion to each other's missing contrast.

I'm not sure if that was supposed to be romantic at the time he informed me of this rule, but the way he said it was so sweet, I counted this as one of his quirky seductive techniques. On top of the saying so, he gave me a black rose and a white rose—those flowers have died since then, granted it had been five years, but I still remembered the first date.

Gary looked at me when I came into the kitchen, but other than that, he was remotely quiet. I remembered that our last discussion had become a vehement argument, as frequent as our conversations normally ended. I barely remembered what he'd argued about, but I was sure it was something about my job, or my latent tendencies of 'ruining his plans'. I wasn't about to start another one when it was so close to that time that he would leave for work.

I placed my effects on the end table under the coat rack behind the door, and then placed my hat above on its hat rack. The poor latter was ever the only hat to belong there, but Gary had insisted on one, being that's where hats are supposed to go.

Moving behind Gary, I wordlessly poured myself a glass of milk, and filed through the chips and snacks neatly placed in the cabinet before finding my target, grabbing a big box of oatmeal cookies. Sitting across from him, I started digging in—Gary looked at me with curiosity.

"How was work?" he asked quietly.

"Interesting," I returned.

"What was?"

"Work," I replied. I ate a cookie whole, munching happily, then smiled after I had washed it down with half the glass of milk. "It was an interesting day."

"Don't you mean 'night'?" corrected Gary, sipping from his coffee.

"You know what I mean," I stated, waving my hand.

"That's not a correct breakfast—eating cookies at six in the morning."

"Well, I don't want anything else." I told him. "I just want cookies."

"That's not a healthy breakfast."

"I don't see you getting up and making me an omelet," I told Gary as I ate a fifth cookie whole. This time, I spoke with my mouth full, just to see if it would vex Gary, who frowned at my unlady-like manner, but said nothing when I waited for him to speak.

Then he saw my neck, and the red strangle marks that I'd acquired from Lyle's temper. Gary reached forward over the table, ceasing my sugar binge, and touched my neck gently with his fingers.

"What happened last night?" he asked.

"I was strangled by my supervisor," I stated flatly. I touched Gary's hand and gave it back to him.

"My god, Katelynn!" Gary exclaimed, getting to his feet. "We have to call the police department if that's what happened!"

"No, we don't." I returned.

"But you just said he strangled you!" Gary said, walking around the kitchen to get to the nearest home phone. When he picked it up, I stood to my feet, snatching it from him and threw it into the sink.

Gary stared at me with both surprise and alarm.

"I'm winning this war, Gary," I stated vehemently. "I'm not letting Bolton win this time—no dice. I've got him where I want him, and I don't want the police to find him out—I want to do it."

"Find him out about what?" Gary demanded.

He crossed his arms, looking at me with an expression of disappointment and concern. I could tell he wanted to nab Lyle for hurting me, but I also could tell that he'd gladly be my lawyer on this one. I told him only what I knew of Lyle, but not about his security measures. Now that I had proof, I could go over Lyle's head, and give my testimony, but I wanted the man to suffer.

"Nothing you need to know," I stated. I sat back down and ate my cookies.

"Katelynn, this is some serious assault charge—you have bruises on your neck. I mean, he assaulted you, Katelynn! You have to act, you have to..."

"Don't tell me what I _have _to do," I retorted, waving my cookie at him threateningly. "I know very well what I _have_ to do, but this is something I _want_ to do. Now drop it."

"Drop _what_? My wife has been assaulted and you expect me just to sit around like an idle duck while—"

"—YES!" I screamed, throwing my plate of cookies on the floor and I was very aware that my glass of milk spilled on the tile and shattered around my feet.

Gary hit the deck; he kept the table between us.

I'd never hit Gary in my life. I never had abused him but the sight that I witnessed as he quickly placed the barrier in between and his eyes were lit with fear and preparation for an attack, I frowned at the display.

"I expect you to back me up, Gary," I demanded furiously, slamming my hand on the table. "I'm in a crisis situation at work, and I expect you to follow with what I'm doing."

"I'm only looking out for your best interest," Gary reassured anxiously, holding out his hands to show that he was not meaning any harm for my future.

I frowned.

"I don't want you looking out for my best interest, Gary—I want you to...to..."

"To what? To _what_?" Gary inquired desperately. "I just want to help you..."

"I want you to stop trying to control me!" I snapped.

Gary stared at me.

"I'm not trying to control you, Katelynn."

"Yes, you are."

"How am I trying to control you?"

"You decide where everything goes," I listed immediately, walking around the kitchen table. "You decided the colors to paint the wallpaper and border. You decided for me what part of the on the bed which I'd be sleeping, and you decided the carpet that would go in our bedroom. You tell me what friends I should or shouldn't hang out with, and then you tell me what kind of a douche my supervisor is—I _know_ what kind of a douche he is, Gary, you don't have to decide what kind!"

"Katelynn..." Gary began logically, "I only decided these things because..."

"'Because'?" I repeated heatedly, glaring at him. "You mean you actually have a fucking reason for being so controlling?"

"You knew how I was before we were married," Gary reasoned angrily—his recent fear of me was dropped as he stepped towards me.

"So?" I responded coldly. "That doesn't mean you can't have changed a _little_ bit."

"I wasn't going to change."

"I knew that," I returned with little defeat.

"Katelynn, your mother approved of me. Your mother loved me."

"Then you should have married my mother," I snarled.

Gary took my shoulders. I was half-hoping he'd slam my back on the table, or push me against a wall...like Joker...but nothing happened of any kind. He searched my eyes for a familiar Katelynn Richardson but I stared at him with just equal desperation.

"Katelynn, I've known you to be a flame, a wild child, but..."

"How can you know?" I returned. "You don't even know my favorite color."

"Of course I do." Gary stated quickly.

"What is it then?"

Gary frowned and said, "It's...blue."

"No..." I muttered. "It's green."

Gary shook his head: "That doesn't mean anything."

"It means _something_." I whispered.

Gary's hands left my shoulders with one slow movement, retreating to his waist. He began to walk from the kitchen, so I grabbed his arm, pulling him back. He looked at me.

"Don't walk away from me."

Gary's eyes widened when he heard my dangerous tone. He remained, however.

"Katelynn, we can talk about this some other time."

"You say that, but we never do." I told him. "You say we'll talk about our marriage and the slow decay of what used to be, but we don't."

"We're still very much in love as we used to be," Gary reasoned incredulously. "We've done this before."

"Gary..." I sighed tiredly.

"We argue," Gary said lightly, "We fight. We bicker. Any couple does this."

I wanted to argue about how couples didn't do this so frequently but looking at the time, I knew Gary had to leave for work and punctuality was a proud talent of his. I nodded as though I was convinced, and he kissed my cheek as if nothing had happened.

"I love you, Katelynn."

"Me too." I returned quietly.

He left.

I looked after him with disdain. I knew the only reason I had married him—aside from having a partial likeness—was to get out of my mother's grasp, only to be wed to a man I felt loved my own overtly religious, strict, and unconventional mother more than he knew about me. Even worse, had I known Mom would die when I turned eighteen, I wouldn't have married so young.

I loved Gary in a sense that I was with him for five years and I wanted nothing to happen to him. But I was no longer _in love_ with him. I began to clean up the milk and cookies that had made a mess on the floor, and the entire time, I hoped to go back to work. I'd rather deal with Lyle's obnoxious arrogance than argue with Gary any day of the week.

At least then, I could win with Lyle. With Gary, it was like arguing with my mother: futile, and destined for failure. Even if I won, I still felt very much at a loss.

On that color wheel spectrum, Gary was my white and I was his black. But I didn't see us complementing one another, or balancing. I didn't want White...I wanted my favorite color. I wanted my favorite patient.


	24. That Time of the Month

**I've Been Wrong Before **

**/Author's Note: **_Hope you're enjoying reading this as I enjoy writing it! XD _

**Chapter Twenty-Four: That Time of the Month**

**/**

I slept approximately four hours before I received a phone call at ten o'clock in the morning. I was dressed in a teal robe, caressed by soft fleece material, drinking a cup of coffee and making an omelet when I picked up my cell. I slid my finger over the screen, answering in the usual dutiful tone: "Richardson."

"What are you doing right now?"

It took me a while to remember the voice until I registered it as belonging to Scott Pritchard. If you can remember, he was forty-five years old, worked normally on the day shift, and he and I bantered like newly weds, joking of course. His wife was a beauty, and he acclaimed ever-loving loyalty to her, but that didn't mean he couldn't look at me. (He was joking about that too.)

"Right now, I'm drinking coffee and making breakfast," I replied.

"You sound beat."

"That's one way to put it," I told him, flipping my egg; I smelled the bacon and salt cooking with the yolk goodness; aw, the pleasures of making my own breakfast at ten in the morning.

"Tough night last night?"

"No more worse than the other nights I've worked," I returned apathetically.

I held the phone between my shoulder and ear, walking to the kitchen table with the pan and spatula in hand as I spilled the omelet onto a china plate, adding the few strips of bacon I'd kept for my own cholesterol binge. I tossed the pan and said spatula into the sink, not caring that it made a hard clash. I winced only just but then sat at the kitchen table, caring not if the dishes were washed. At any rate, Gary would do them again anyway.

"I hate to ask but..." Scott began.

"You want me to come in?"

"More like for reinforcement than anything—with Prathart gone, and Cecil still in jail...we don't have many guys."

"I know. Bolton updated me on the lack of guards." I returned. "You'd think there would be more than just Lyle, you, Ricky, me, and Cecil. Course, you can't blame the others—they were married, or taking care of their dying mothers."

I ate a bite of my omelet. After I finished it, I asked, "So why the reinforcements? Did someone die?"

"No, but I can clearly see your way of thinking is a bit on the darker side."

"I had a rough morning," I explained with a soft heart. "Tell me what's going on."

"Well, you know how on days, we let the Level 1 patients wander around in the court yard behind the hospital?"

"Sure, the backyard," I replied, knowing that's what he wanted to say. "No leashes, all electrical fences. What about it?"

"Well, Dr. Arkham said it's about that time of the month when we let the Level 2 patients do the same."

I shrugged, not seeing the problem.

"So why the need for backup?"

"Well, look at it this way, Sweetums," Scott began. I smiled when he began to sweet talk me into a better mood: "We're looking at about—Lyle, how many patients do we have on Level 2?"

Lyle spoke in the background briefly, then Scott continued: "We have about twelve patients on Level 2, you know with six rooms on each side...so I guess that'd be 18 patients on level 1, with nine on each hall...amazing how this place holds that many people, right? Anyway: Most of them are tolerable but then there's Madam Gregory, Deanna Jenkins, Carver—but the latter ain't so much a problem as Victor and the Joker. And right now, we only have Lyle, Ricky, and me on the force...and the orderlies, but you see how great of a help _they_ can be."

"So," I said quietly, "You want me to come in?"

"If you can," Scott returned immediately. "I know you just finished a 12-hour shift for the last three days, but you know how things can get..."

"Right, right. Well, Scott, let me finish my omelet and I'll be over there as soon as I can."

"Sure thing, Lover." Scott said.

I snorted my milk, gasping for air when I heard him call me that. I stopped laughing as I wiped my face with a napkin. Scott was laughing on the other end.

(())

The court yard was a place where prisoners walked around, gathered in groups, and tainted each other's psychosis with the gossip of what has been, what is, and what could and possibly be. They sat on benches, talking quietly, or played a game of basket ball. While there were only twelve patients to look after, one couldn't have too many guards in the court yard when some unruly patient decided that the opposing team might have cheated.

While basketball normally included two or three prisoners—most of them were male—others were happy to exercise their limbs by lifting weights, or taking a small jog while following the white painted lines. Some would push themselves as far as having an asthma attack just to see how long they could endure the pain in their thigh muscles—most of the time, they wanted to test how long they could run if ever a prison break was unleashed.

The girls, Calypso, Medusa, and a few of the other female prisoners on Level 2 would congregate against a wall, sitting on their hind quarters or leaning against a wall, and talk about the hubba hubba: including but not limited to the new good-looking nurses, their sexual orientation, the societal matters on feminism, and what men they'd marry, fuck, or kill concerning Level 2 male prisoners in regards.

Medusa and Calypso were starting to get a little chummy—they'd look at each other with a smile, then a grin, and Calypso would initiate a 'look', which was reciprocated by the proud Madam Gregory. Best friends, they were, as they'd been held in captivity for quite some time, but I sometimes wondered if they had more than just friendship on the brain.

I was prepared for all of this when I arrived twenty minutes later at Arkham Asylum, parking in the front of the hospital, then striding through the doors. Upon my entry, I met the day housekeeper, Lawrence B. Jelly.

Don't laugh—his last name really is 'Jelly'. Good-looking, smoothed blonde hair, startlingly blue eyes, and a grin that would make a girl melt into butter, Lawrence Jelly could make a girl's legs become his last name. He was a smooth talker with a bit of an English accent; the scrubs he wore (which was proper dress code for any employee for save the security officers in the hospital) flattered his buttocks; I'd noticed.

Lawrence smiled when he saw me.

"My, my," said Lawrence, chuckling handsomely, "I thought you might have been sacked or something. It's nice to see you out of the shadows, Katelynn."

"Oh, you know," I said, waving at the ceiling. "I just like being on both sides of the moon."

Lawrence chuckled whole-heartedly at my sarcasm, and touched my shoulder, saying pleasantly, "But really, Katelynn—it's good to see you again. I hear you have become Prathart's replacement."

"More or less," I agreed, smiling. "It was bound to happen."

"Yes, I suppose it was," Lawrence agreed. He shrugged, adding, "Not much of a loss, was he?"

When I nodded my head in agreement, he laughed again, and then shook his head.

"Well, I ought to be working the halls again—no time like the present, right?"

"Right," I agreed.

Lawrence took his cart and started mopping down the hall. I smiled at him—like the British: so like a gentleman, and smooth-talking. The accent helped a lot.

I walked down the hall, nodding respectfully at the men and women that passed me. There was an assortment of doctors, nurses, lab technicians, medical records clerks, ward clerks, admissions office employees, billing interns, secretaries, the receptionist, and a number of visitors walking around. I must have passed twenty or thirty people when I stopped at the break room, smiling at Lyle, who glared at me in return.

"Present," I announced myself sweetly.

"Great. Take this." Lyle instructed gruffly, shoving a walkie talkie in my hand.

Scott saw Lyle's treatment towards me, and he called him on it: "Lord, Bolton, no need to be rough with the lady. She came in, you know."

"I know." Lyle responded immediately. He glared at me knowingly—he was still sore from when I kicked him in the groin. Knowing this, I simply smiled innocently at him as if I couldn't remember why he was so mad at me.

Scott glanced between us curiously.

Ricky entered behind me, looking at us with a big grin on his face

. "What the hell are you smiling about?" Lyle demanded.

"I..."

"Never mind. Take one of these," Lyle interrupted grumpily, as he held up his own walkie, "And start moving the prisoners from Level 2 to the court yard. We'll go three at a time."

"One guard per prisoner..." Ricky began uncertainly.

"Yes," Lyle interrupted again, frowning at him. He got up in his face, demanding, "Are you _scared_ of them, Durkes, huh? You have a problem with that?"

"No, Sir. I don't, Sir." Ricky said quickly, smiling dutifully. "I was just..."

"No 'just'," Lyle interrupted a third time. He looked at all of us. "We're transporting these patients by dollies."

"Is that really necessary?" I asked.

"**Very**," Lyle snapped, frowning at me. "Unless you want them to snap your neck, you'd be happy they're gonna be transported on dollies in a nice strait jacket. There will be no questions about it, and if I see any fraternization, I'll..."

He made an idle threat with his eyes but I didn't register it as a real threat. It was a bluff, to keep us all in line but I swear he was unhinged since last night.

These dollies he spoke of, were precisely as they sounded to be. The dolly was something of a platform that was my height and width; attached to it was a handle, and a place at the bottom for something to sit on, like a box or a heavy weight object. These things were normally used to transfer large heavy things like said box or heavy weight object; but recently, ode to the security measures placed into affect by Lyle Bolton, patients no longer walked place to place.

Instead, they were strapped into white, restrained, jackets, placed on these things, tied down, and then transported in this manner to keep them more secure and less likely to hurt any passing officials or employees. Personally, I found them degrading, and I didn't like the idea of any of them—even Victor—being transported in these. However, as you could clearly tell, I had no say in the matter.

We, four officers, walked to Level 2—I took the stairs; and the other three took the elevator. I met them at the double doors, keyed in the code, my thumb print, and badge number and I stepped through the hallway. The nurses there were waiting for us, including Catherine, who was back from suspension; Lori Heart, who was technically on Level 2 for certain on nights but came in for this very procedure like myself; and Angie from Level 1, who I stared at with insurmountable dislike.

As an army, we moved inside rooms with dollies, strait jackets, and straps. The prisoner was informed of this court yard freedom and most of them were happy to get on the dolly and be strapped in, knowing there was a small amount of freedom awaiting them on the other side of the building.

Some were less eager—like Medusa.

"I do not want _them_ near me." Medusa claimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Ricky, James Kyle, Lyle, and Scott Pritchard.

The others looked uncertain so I stepped towards her, smiling reassuringly.

"What about me?" I offered.

"You are a woman," Medusa stated outright. She smiled approvingly, saying, "Yes. I will allow you to come near me. And...I will allow her. She has been nice to me as well." She indicated Lori Heart, who, with a small bow of thanks, stepped towards her and we strapped her into the strait jacket, careful not to get her snake-like hair caught in the straps.

"Roll her out," Lyle shot his orders at Catherine, who grimaced at his tone, but did as she was told.

She took the handle of Medusa's restrained transport and began wheeling her to the elevator. I looked after her for a second then we continued to Calypso's cell, who was in the same manner towards the men, unwilling to be touched by any type of testosterone.

"This is ridiculous," Lyle hissed. "We'll get no where like this."

"Then assume the wohst, Secuhity Officeh Bolton," Calypso voiced dangerously as she smirked at the man. She said nothing more but Bolton frowned at her regardless.

"Get her out of here and down to the court yard," Lyle said. He turned to Lori saying, "You do it."

"As you wish, _Sir Bolton_," Lori voiced disgustedly.

Lyle was shocked by the display of dislike but Lori remained unaffected by his flabbergasted expression. As Calypso was wheeled to the elevator (after Medusa had gone), I watched after her shortly. We continued to the rest. While the other patients had been wheeled separately, escorted by one person (be it a nurse or orderly), now we were at Victor and Joker, with Lyle, Ricky, and myself.

Lyle opened the door belonging to Victor, who was waiting patiently on the bed with his feet on the floor and his hands clasped on his lap. By then, the prisoners knew what was happening and he had a great big smile on his face because of it.

"Time for that time of the month, am I right," chuckled Victor as he got to his feet.

"Stay where you're at," ordered Lyle, pointing at him. He turned to Ricky: "Get the dolly, get the jacket."

"Oh, is it cool out today?" asked Victor in an eerily smooth draw. "Gee, I..."

"Stop talking." Lyle ordered.

Victor's presumptuous good mood died down when addressed in such an ill manner. I shook my head, disapprovingly; Lyle hadn't learned his lesson that the Golden Rule was a big thing, dealing with unruly people. Treat others as you would want to be treated—right now I could see Lyle's future paved in blood and malcontent.

"Get on the damn thing," Lyle demanded, pointing to the dolly. "Do as you're told, or forever wish you had."

Victor glanced at me but I said nothing to a defense or rule. Victor did as he was told, getting on the dolly as Ricky and Lyle strapped him into the jacket, then across with the belt buckles attached to the dolly. Victor moved his eyes to my direction and in a lazy tone, he added: "The things people will do to make them feel so safe...kinda puts me in a really good mood, ha, ha."

I shivered at the dangerously calm tone but just then, Victor was wheeled out of his room. Ricky didn't feel comfortable going alone with Victor, who obviously held a current dislike for everyone. He smirked at Lyle, who was beside himself, uncertain as to whether play into Ricky's need for babysitting, or leave me alone with the Joker.

"Go head." I told Lyle, smiling. "I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."

"Sure you can, sure you can," Lyle stated, "but I don't trust you with him."

"You have a psychopath inside that cell and _I'm_ the one you don't trust?" I laughed.

Victor, from the elevator, chortled: "The zombie has a point!"

"Shut him up," Lyle ordered of Ricky, who took his night stick and hit Victor over the head with it.

I grimaced at the treatment then glared up at Lyle.

"You do your job. I'll do mine." I told him. "If not better."

Lyle took this as a challenge, stepping towards me.

"You're messing with something far beyond your experience, Richardson," Lyle threatened quietly. "I'm not about to see my plans fall just because you feel a little pity for these people; and if you think I will stand by...well, then you have another thing coming."

I grinned at him spitefully, saying, "I can swim just as good as you can, Bolton—I've been up the shit creek without a paddle, and I find that I'm a damn good swimmer."

Lyle narrowed his eyes, but when he heard Ricky's plea for a second baby sitter over Victor, Lyle shook his head with resolve. He pointed his night stick at Joker's cell.

"Get him out of there, strap him into the dolly, strait jacket too. I don't want more than twenty minutes to pass. Do I make myself clear, Richardson?"

I mockingly saluted him, saying, "Crystal, _Sir._"

Lyle smirked at my sarcasm but he rolled his eyes, assuming my prestige bravery was a mockery of his own. He walked down the hall, accompanying Ricky into the elevator; he turned around, making a gesture that he had both eyes on me, then he stepped into the moving box as well. When the doors shut, I realized that the only people remaining in this hall was the Joker and myself.


	25. Better To Be Paranoid

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/Author's Note: I know it's a short, short chapter compared to the rest but I felt this should be on chapter altogether :)

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Better To Be Paranoid**

/

I coded in the numbers to get into Joker's cell, pausing before I took the handle. I turned it when I convinced myself that I'd do nothing but my duties in the twenty minutes I was given. As I opened the door, I glanced over the room to see that Joker was standing with his back against the wall, arms crossed casually as he watched me with a smile. He said nothing when I pulled the dolly inside and raised the strait jacket that was lain over my arm. Joker shrugged, bouncing forward from the wall to stand in the center of the room.

"No one but you, huh?" Joker asked, smiling at me still.

"You said you didn't want anyone in your cell but me," I reminded.

"Ah, you remember my words—I think that's cute." Joker pointed out.

I wheeled in the dolly and placed it in front of him.

"Please..." I instructed.

Joker rolled his eyes, saying, "You really think I'll get on that thing?"

"I can fight you if you want," I said tiredly, "But personally, I've had enough Friday Night fights to last me a century. Just do as you're told."

Joker probably perceived my rude remark as one having dealt with Lyle and my husband in the past few hours I'd been awake. He smiled at me, regardless, and with a sigh of reluctance, he stood on the platform. I was actually surprised he did as I asked.

I was very aware of his eyes observing me with the utmost scrutiny as I lifted the strait jacket over his head. He held out his arms in my direction so I could pull the sleeves up his arms. I bit my lip as I stepped towards him—distance closing immediately—as I tied and buckle the straps behind his back. My eyes flickered to him; Joker smirked at me, his tongue licking his scars as if he, too, was lost in a dirty reverie.

Just feeling my body pressed against his as I tied the straps quickly, I could feel myself getting hot and bothered. Being so close to him, my mind raced with all the things that could be accomplished in twenty minutes, but I was stepping on too many toes to begin with, so I attempted to force those delicious scenarios from my head.

"Wearing a new perfume, hm?"

I startled at the question—not so much the wording as I did at the sound of his voice in my ear. When I stepped back, Joker was smiling at me.

"I ran out of the other type," I explained calmly.

Joker looked down at me when I stooped to buckle in his legs.

"I like the type you have on right now," Joker stated plainly.

I glanced up at him; seeing the crooked smile on his face, I bit my lip again, hoping to drown out the small screams my loins beckoned for me to do. What I wanted to do was keep him strapped in and then show just how in control I could be...the pleasurable sounds that would come from him—the very _idea_ made me hurt with knowing just how great it would be.

"Perfume aside," I sighed as I stood to my feet, "I don't wear it that often."

"Just for me then?" Joker offered, chuckling for he knew that wasn't the case.

I licked my lips for they'd become very dry. Joker's eyes flickered to them with a certain appeal then he saw my neck, the redness of it. I reckoned he had an idea that someone else did that to me; Gary had neither the interest nor the will to cause that kind of bodily harm.

"Someone else besides me?" Joker asked curiously.

"Nope." I returned, but that's all I said.

I opened the door to the cell, and pushed it open with my foot. As I wheeled him out of the room and down the hall, we came to the elevator. I frowned at the metal box, for the fact that I hardly ever took the damn thing to any floor. When I hit the button, Joker glanced at me; I stood beside him.

"Don't like elevators?" Joker assumed.

"What made you think that?" I returned sarcastically.

"Intuition," he remarked.

"Funny," I muttered.

Joker chuckled.

The doors opened and I moved him inside, stepping aside to hit the button number 1. I sighed wearily, grimacing when I felt the sudden drop of the platform moving downward; instinctively, I grabbed the railing around the wall, and to my surprise, my other hand had grabbed Joker's arm. I glanced at him with embarrassment, immediately letting go. He made an amused laugh.

"Little Officer Kate is afraid of elevators. What, is it the idea of falling through the floor?" asked Joker, smirking at me. "Or do you see the walls closing in on you?"

I frowned at his mockery of my phobia, saying quietly, "None of them."

"None, huh? Then what?" asked Joker.

"It's the idea of someone hiding above." I muttered, pointing to the ceiling where a square hatch was carved up above—the place where a person could easily hide or get out of the elevator should the building collapse...or for someone to wait patiently then assassinate a target. Joker glanced up to where I was pointing and he smiled at me.

"That's a _lot_ of paranoia for one person." Joker commented smoothly.

"Yeah, well...better to be paranoid than ignorant." I stated. The doors opened and I added, "Especially in a city like Gotham."  
Joker laughed at my reasoning, but I knew in my mind that it was true.


	26. The Box

**I've Been Wrong Before**

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Box

/

Author's Note: _In honor of those who have a phobia of elevators. 3_

_Also: Please read and review; personally, I love elevators so I really don't know what people feel but I figure it's the same as me being stuck in a closet for too long. Sorry for the late update; thought I'd nap for two hours but those two hours turned into eight! Love you all! XD Thanks for the past reviews as well; you all keep me feelin' so awesome._

_(())_

My fear of elevators wasn't recognized until I was about eight years old. Even at this age, I was still under the impression that monsters hid under my bed, and some lurked within my closet. When the lights went out, they'd watch me with red glowing eyes of malcontent, their razor sharp claws making tic marks in the carpet. The blanket, which I quickly had yanked over my head in these troubling times, had been something of a shield, keeping the monsters away from me. My mother insisted I pray in times I felt afraid or doubtful.

I would close my eyes. As I held the blanket in shaking, tightly clenched fingers, I humbly requested for a certain deity to grant me bravery, and a bit of courage that I could withstand the night. It was a desperate time—I had to go to the bathroom.

A shaky foot hit the floor...that was mine.

My legs were wobbly, feeling unattached to my small, petite frame. I placed the other foot on my blue sky carpet, the color of my mother's eyes. I frowned when I felt afraid again, hoping that my mother was mistaken—prayer would give me courage, she said. Then why did I feel so alone? Why did those monsters seemingly stare harder at my little bare toes?

Despite my fear, I still had to go to the bathroom. My bladder wouldn't hold much longer.

The moment I stood, I decided to flee—take off in a sprint, and then, if necessary, barricade myself within the homely quarters of a toilet and a shower. I didn't get there in time though; I was caught by the arm; while screaming fearfully for my life, I was slowly dragged into the closet.

Tears filled my eyes, draining down my cheeks. I screamed for my mother, but she never came

I was doubting my beliefs as I was sucked into the closet. And then someone turned on the light.

I bravely—but oh so fearfully—turned slowly to see my monster...and then I was shocked to see my own mother, dressed in a black cloak. She pulled off the hood, and smiled at me wickedly.

"Did you pray, Katie?"

In mid-shock, I answered quietly, "Y-yes."

"Did you talk to God?"

"Yes..."

"You were courageous," Mom said smoothly, patting my head.

"Why...were you hiding in here?" I questioned; I couldn't stop the tears from drizzling down my cheeks, and I was doing quite a bit of sniffling.

"Because not all monsters have talons—some look just like the rest of us." Mom informed lightly; saying that, she took me into her arms, caressed my face, and said everything would be okay as long as I believed in God.

I don't know if that was supposed to strengthen our relationship, or perhaps draw me closer to Him. I believe it was what she had intended. But I believed no god would make a mother scare a child so badly she didn't have to go to the bathroom again that night, for she'd pissed her own pants out of fear.

Because of this, I was afraid of getting into an elevator. I was afraid of being placed in a room that was sealed off by sliding metal doors. I was afraid of the hatch above, for I thought maybe my mother would be testing my beliefs, however non-existent they'd become.

So naturally, I felt a lump the size of a golf ball stop in my throat when the elevator suddenly stopped during its descent from Level 2 to Level 1. The sound was irksome; it was like the brakes had been put on, and I felt the floor beneath me jerk. The sudden stop brought me to the ground by gravitational force, and I shook my head as I got up from my knees to hold onto the railing.

"That's not supposed to happen, right?" Joker idly asked, glancing up at the ceiling, the floor, then at me with knowing.

"No," I muttered. "It's not."

"Well, then," Joker sighed, "Looks like I'm spending my recess time with you instead of on the mediocre playground, aren't I?" He licked his lips, adding, "Not exactly a punishment, but hey, I've seen odder displays of torture."

"Shhh." I hushed, waving at him.

Joker smiled when I nervously stared at the doors, waiting for a continuance of descent. When it didn't happen within five minutes, I hastily pushed the bottom floor button five or six times. Then I tried opening the doors. The longer I remained in this cage, the more aware I was getting of its size, shape, and the hatch above. I glanced at it wearily, then turned to Joker.

"Any ideas?" I offered.

Joker chuckled, "I'd love to help you, Doll Face, but my hands are pretty much tied."

I stared at him then he cracked a smile; out of my anxiety, I nervously chortled at his attempt of a joke, even though he was truly half-serious.

Joker looked at the doors indicatively asking pointedly, "I figure the elevators do this because of two reasons."

"Don't tell me those reasons," I returned quietly, attempting to pry open the doors. I gritted my teeth with the exertion of marvelous effort, but then leaned against the railing with resolve. I looked at him: "I know the reasons."

"Good," Joker replied. "Then you know we're either going to go up flames, or you're actually in the safest place you can think of."

My eyes flickered from the hatch above to him, saying, "You think it's more than just faulty wiring?"

Joker shrugged, "Well, think about it." He smirked: "Ol' Vicky _did_ say he'd escape some day."

I stared at him incredulously: "You actually believe him?"

"It's one thing to believe what someone says, and another to just accept it." Joker stated. He grinned at me: "Personally, I was convinced he was just trying to scare you."  
I rolled my eyes: "Well, he failed, didn't he?"

"I'm not sure about that," Joker replied. His eyes glanced at me and he observed, "You look pretty scared right _now_."

"That's because I'm trapped in an elevator between two floors of an insane asylum," I replied quietly. Out of sheer response to my odd situation, I banged on the doors, shouting: "_HELLO!"_

Joker chuckled, so I looked at him.

"What the fuck is so funny?" I questioned irately.

"You're not afraid of Victor," Joker pointed out. "Not right now, anyway—you're more afraid of this elevator than anything...even me."

"Way to point out the obvious," I sighed, staring at the doors again. "If there is a prison breakout, I need to get on the ground floor and help."

Joker smiled at me, saying, "You _really_ think there's a breakout, Kate?"

I glared: "Didn't you just say there was?"

"I'm just theorizing," Joker offered. "You know, a lot of what people assume is based on theory; that's all assumptions are, really—small theories slowly evolved into an idea, and then before you know it, a female officer is attempting to break down a metal door with her _fist_."

At the last, I stopped banging on the elevator doors, and I turned to him irritably.

"You're not exactly helping, you know," I stated coldly.

"Well, I don't think that's my fault," Joker returned, smirking at me. "_You_ put me in this" (he wiggled in his strait jacket) "and it doesn't even match my eyes."

I rolled my eyes at his sense of humor then pressed a few more buttons. Any button would be great—come _on_, why wasn't this working?

"If everything relied on fashion more than function, we'd still be in the same situation we are in right now."

"You mean because everything in this place is white?" offered Joker.

"Yes," I returned. "White. Plain...Bare..." I sighed, adding, "Completely boring."  
"Mmm, then when you get out of this box," Joker reasoned, "You should take up interior designing." He winked: "I wouldn't mind watching you paint."

I gazed at him idly, then he grinned at me.

"Something to think about," Joker explained.

"I don't want to think about painting." I told him.

"No, of course not. You want out of this box," Joker stated pointedly, "But you know...we've already been here, what, ten minutes now? Fifteen?" He smiled: "Might as well enjoy the privacy; Life doesn't offer such trivial times, especially in a place like this."

I stared at him, incredulous to his conversational mood. I shook my head, a force back to my reality. My attention turned to the buttons on the side. Along with Level 1 and 2, there was a 3—the roof above. I pushed it, hoping the floor was linked to a separate wiring set and that Level 1 and 2 were the only ones inaccessible at the time.

Nothing happened. No dice.

There wasn't even a phone in this thing to call for help if it ever went out of order, or stopped suddenly out of no where. I frowned at the illogical mind of whomever built this godforsaken cube.

"You can always climb out."

At Joker's smoothly worded suggestion, I looked up from where the ground, on which I was knelt, attempting to see underneath the doors. I then glanced anxiously at the only opening this small cube provided. When Joker saw my apprehension of that kind of wayward bravery, he merely grinned—maybe that was the point of the suggestion...to make me nervous again.

"If you don't want to do it," Joker offered, "Then I can."

"At the risk this elevator starts moving and then you escape? No way." I returned, getting to my feet.

"Don't trust me, Kate?" Joker asked, smirking at me.

"Not at all," I replied.

Joker sighed, saying quietly, "That's a shame."

There was silence for a moment while I waited to listen for any noise representing an emergency alarm, a fire alarm...any fucking alarm. Meanwhile, I occasionally prodded at a button for any level, and then wearily look at the hatch for a second alternative.

Honestly, I could go up the hatch, assuming I could break it open and then climb out. I could go out, but what if an escaped prisoner (as Joker would have suggested) was on top of it, having already guessed that there are two people left in the elevator. What if the elevator started as I was standing on top, and the metal springs that guided it downward shot up and I was killed instantly?

_What if..._

_ what if..._

_ What if..._

_ Oh god Kate, grow a pair!_

I smiled suddenly at my mental argument. Sometimes, my scolding would give me the small break from anxiety necessary to just simply grin. I looked at Joker musingly who was aside himself, having nothing to do (or better to do) than look at the distorted reflection of us in the metal doors. I glanced at it briefly.

"My arms are falling asleep," Joker stated.

I sat on the elevator floor, my back against the wall, my head just under the rails. When he spoke, I looked at him with a frank expression, wondering if this was a complaint or another attempt of conversation.

"Are they hurting?" I asked lightly.

"If a man complained of every small amount of pain he felt, Kate," Joker returned apathetically, "he wouldn't be a man."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Joker smiled as I stood to my feet. For an awkward second or two, we watched each other. While he was obviously amused by my behavior in this certain situation, I was attempting caution. The bridge had been crossed, concerning my job itself; if anyone found out that I had a moment's weakness with this man in front of me, I was officially terminated. While I'd given into my sexual needs, I was still aware that I was a security guard. Releasing him would only add another demerit on my already-lacking morality.

That didn't keep my mind from wandering—we _were_ trapped in an elevator, which offered privacy and, with the time exhumed already, I figured we'd be here another thirty minutes to an hour. That was time enough to do to him what I'd been thinking about since the last time I gave into him. Joker smiled asking, "What are you thinking about, Kate?"

"Nothing that's legal," I answered truthfully.

Joker chuckled at my honesty. The lightness of the sound made my stomach turn; it was a genuine laugh. I stepped past him to try the doors again, and for the umpteenth time now, I glanced at hatch warily, but I couldn't force myself to attempt to see out there. My memories of my mother frightening me—that night I pissed my pants because I'd been so terrified—came back, and I bit my lip nervously.

_Pray_, she said. _Pray._

"Pray," I muttered, shaking my head. "What a load of crap."

"Sorry?"

I realized I'd spoken my thoughts aloud when Joker acknowledged me. I glanced at him, and smiled weakly.

"It's something my mother used to tell me."

"'Used to'?" Joker repeated. He smiled: "Is she dead?"

"Quite," I answered nonchalantly. I moved behind him. "She used to tell to me pray whenever I felt afraid, lost, or doubtful of things yet to come."

Joker moved his head to the side to watch me from his peripheral vision as I was undoing the straps behind his back. When I'd loosened them, I returned to his full sights and smiled as he sighed with relief. At least his arms would wake up.

"I've not seen you on your knees, talking," Joker pointed out. He leaned forward (what little he could do) saying, "I think your mother would be disappointed."

I nodded, "She would be."

"Why's that?"

"Why should I tell you that?" I asked. "Why should I tell you _anything_."

Joker shrugged, "You don't have to tell me _anything_. I'm just making conversation."

"For a price, I bet," I replied, turning from him to push more buttons on the side.

"I didn't realize we were negotiating," Joker returned.

I turned slowly, saying quietly, "Criminals are always negotiating."

Joker frowned at my generalized statement but said nothing in response; he continued to watch me. When my method of pressing buttons or stomping on the elevator floor didn't make this box move any further than when I'd started, Joker smiled at my failure.

"Do you think she'd be disappointed with you, Kate, hm?"

I looked at Joker for a second before answering, "There's no doubt about it."

"Oh really? Why is that?"

I smiled ironically: "She was a devoted Christian, a bit radical."

"And you're not?"

I gazed at him coolly, answering, "No. I'm not."

Joker chuckled, "You don't believe in God?"

"I don't believe in anything," I returned honestly.

"Ooh, an atheist." Joker drawled. He smirked at me: "I guess you really don't have anything to pray about, then."

"No, I don't." I agreed. "I believe in what I know to be facts."

Joker chuckled and said, "Really? I don't see you believing in them right now."

"Why do you say that?"

I saw his expression die from amusement to pure seriousness. The sudden change made me step away from him a small ways, even though he was strapped on a dolly and in a strait jacket. I wasn't afraid of the expression; I was lacking, once more, in my strongly appraised morale.

"Here are your facts, Officer," Joker drawled. "We're trapped in an elevator, have been for almost half an hour. So far, there's not been a single hint of a fire, and I certainly don't hear the emergency alarms going off, so no emergency there."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" I asked.

"Is it?" Joker replied casually.

I doubted my veracity, and Joker saw this.

"If there isn't an emergency, there is no panic," Joker reasoned. "If there is no panic, no one is going to be attempting to hide. If no one is attempting to hide, then you can bet no one is coming to the elevators." He smiled wickedly, adding, "If there isn't an emergency, Officer, no one is searching for Patient 4479, or the officer whom escorted him."

"Well," I said after a silence, "Then at least there's no emergency."

Joker chuckled at my response, saying, "You find a silver lining to everything, don't you, Pet?"

I thought this was an insult until Joker smiled at me with a different expression as he added, "I like you—you're funny."

I looked at him strangely, then turned from him to look at my reflect in the elevator doors. I didn't think they'd open any time soon. From what he'd just made me realize, no one would be searching the elevators for a missing patient and myself. Lyle, Ricky, Scott—they'd just assumed I was busier than usual, dealing with Patient 4479...but Lyle _did_ command that it would take no longer than twenty minutes.

Any longer, and he'd come after me.

So where was he?

I frowned at the man—a bluffing man to the very end. Go figure.

"Tell me, Kate..."

I looked at the Joker sparingly.

"Tell you what?" I responded.

"Do you see a way out of this situation?" asked Joker softly.

"I do," I said. "But I'd just assume sit here idly on my ass while I wait for some man dressed in a black cape and cowl to rescue me."

Joker blinked, then grinned at my allusion to Batman.

"In all seriousness," I stated lightly, "I see two options."

"Mmhmm."

"I wait for the others to realize I'm gone," I told him, "and for the elevator to descend. Or, I take the risk of you killing me when I get you out of those restraints."

Joker sighed, "Why do you think I'd kill you, Kate?"

"Because you're an unpredictable, manipulative bastard." I replied casually.

"Well, contrary to what you think," Joker sighed, "I like you. You have a sense of humor—you realize how hard it is to find a person in this place that actually laughs at what I say?"

"I can imagine," I returned coolly.

"So what do you say, Kate?" asked Joker, smiling again. "You clearly only have one option."

I nodded, knowing this.

"So what is gonna be?" Joker asked quietly.

I eyed him suspiciously, knowing he couldn't be trusted. What are the odds that I'd set him free and he'd assault me? There were no cameras, or guards around. There were nurses with tranquilizer darts, or metal doors to protect me. He could kill me now if he saw fit...however, the thought of being trapped in this elevator any longer was starting to change my priorities.

That, and the consistent gaze he sent me made my knees liquidate. That crooked grin.

"Fine..." I muttered quietly.

I stepped towards him to undo his jacket from behind but just as soon as I'd given my consent, he wiggled a bit and then his arms slid apart, and he smiled at me mischievously.

"One strap out of place," Joker mused as he pulled off the strait jacket, "and the whole thing comes unraveling. I think you're right; this place would fail whether or not it manufactured equipment for fashion _or_ function."

He bent down, unstrapping his legs and then he stepped off the dolly. I stepped away from him, and Joker smiled.

"Let's see if we can't get out of this box," Joker drawled.


	27. Three Options

**I'd Been Wrong Before**

–Author's Note: Be gentle with me; I've been sick with this stupid stomach virus. Thank you for the reviews, and the messages. I hope you enjoy this chapter (I did!) XD

_Chapter Twenty-Seven: Three Options_

–

When Joker stepped past me, I was severely aware that it was only just the two of us in an elevator. There were no cameras, guards, nurses, doctors, or anything to distract whatever would happen in the next hour or so—by then, I'd hoped the elevators would start moving again and I'd be thankful to go home, apologize for my ridiculous arguments I'd had with Gary, and then maybe start a new job somewhere else.

As I thought of my new resolutions, I was brought back to a reality when the Joker, no longer restrained by any means necessary (for save the box), placed the dolly on its side as though making it a new stepping stool. He was aside himself, in own thought process. We hadn't said a word to each other in the past fifteen minutes since he freed himself, thanks to my loosening his restraints.

Along with the knowledge that he was now free to do what he pleased—escape, kill me, or whatever he damn well wanted to do—I was aware that the fan in the elevator had stopped. While I watched Joker attempt to pound the hatch open (it took either a strong man or some metal equipment to do so), I sat on the ground, knees bent as I used them as placements for my hands.

The air was starting to get warm.

Joker sighed as he stepped off the dolly, sitting on it like a bench, then looked at me as he rubbed his hands together.

"I have to give the interior designer credit," Joker stated, pointing upwards. "That thing might as well be sealed shut."

"Fascinating," I muttered; I brushed my hands over my face, wiping the sweat off my forehead. "At least we don't have to worry about mad men approaching from above."

Joker smirked, saying, "You honestly think ol' Vicky is on the hunt, don't you?"

"I have reason to believe it," I replied.

Joker leaned forward, smiling as he said, "Tell me your facts, Kate. I've got the time to listen to 'em."

"Stop talking." I ordered.

Joker gazed at me with a look of one being greatly offended but I pointed at the doors, indicating that with the lack of conversation and noise, we could hear what else was happening. Just barely, there was a soft alarm going off, not unlike one a person would hear if there was a mass emergency...or if the place was going on lock down.

Joker looked at me with a grin, saying, "Alright, you have me convinced."

I nodded, getting to my feet: "The elevator is the safest place to be, right?"

Joker shrugged: "Depending on your company."

I warily glanced at him, so Joker got to his feet as well.

"I'll give you a choice, Kate, one I'm sure you'd appreciate." Joker said. After a second of saying this, he giggled, saying, "What do ya know—that rhymed."

I rolled my eyes ironically.

"I'm not going to wait in this godforsaken box. If there's an emergency, I need to be on the ground floor."

"Oh yeah, doing _what_?" Joker inquired, smirking. "Helping your people gather the rest of us like little unattended sheep?"

I frowned, saying "You're far from being sheep."

"Ouch, that stings," Joker responded sarcastically.

He watched me move past him, attempting to pry open the doors.

"Think you'd help them in the end?" Joker asked.

"Doesn't matter—I have a job to do, whether or not people think I'm making a difference."

"Who says that?" Joker asked.

I turned around to see that he was leaned against the wall of the elevator, arms crossed with his back against it. He looked so relaxed...now why could I not do the same? After a second of glaring at this point, I continued to open the doors, but like all the other times, I was unsuccessful. In my anger, I kicked the motherfucking door.

"Am I talking to myself?" Joker stated pointedly.

I turned to him again, frowning: "I heard you, but I'm not about to answer your questions. I'm trying to get out of this fucking box, not stay in here just so I can make idle conversation with you."

"I can think of something else we could be doing," Joker offered mischievously, "But that still requires your participation."

As he said so, he walked towards me until my back made a small thud against the door.

"Prison break or no," Joker mused, "You and I are still going to be stuck in this little cage, no matter if your people win or my people win."

When I said nothing, Joker smiled.

"I bet you didn't bank on being in this situation when you started the job, did you, Kate?"

The question made me uncomfortable—it made me doubt my mortality. So to physically remove myself from that kind of discomfort, I attempted to move away from the Joker, but instead he grabbed my shoulders and pushed my back against the doors again, none too gently. His right hand grabbed my neck, so as to make me look at him.

"Is the grass greener on the other side, Kate?" Joker asked.

"Greener? Technically, yes."

Joker blinked at my answer, a bit confused, so to prove a point, I reached out and touched his hair indicatively.

Joker cracked a smile; in the midst of him assaulting me, I made a joke.

"Do you want to see your husband again?" asked Joker quietly.

"Yes." I admitted.

"You're more grateful for your life?" he guessed.

"More or less," I answered.

Joker smirked at me: "See? Something good came out of you sleeping with me. I think that's something we can both agree on."

I placed my hand on his that was currently on my neck.

"But," Joker drawled, "with the small number of security guards, and the mass population of committed crazies presumably walking the halls currently, do you think anything that you're doing will matter in the end?"

I smiled in spite of myself, saying, "Assuming the moment I step off this thing, I'll be killed?"

"That's a likely outcome," Joker stated. He shrugged: "Not all men are as lenient as me."

"You have me pinned against these doors with your hand on my throat," I pointed out. "What leniency are you offering?"

Joker chuckled: "I'm offering you three options, but the first one is free."

I quirked my eyebrows at him, confused by the conditions that had already been set. However, I reckoned that the first option was one we'd mutually settled, as I didn't stop him from unbuttoning my blouse. I didn't resist when he took me by the waist and moved me on my back. In fact, I smiled in spite of my better senses. I watched him pull off his two shirts as one, and I was a bit surprised to see less battle scars than what I'd expected. And he was very..er...muscle-y.

Split second's worth of observation passed, and he pulled my pants down and off my legs. We said nothing—the heat of overwhelming desire incapacitated me, and the heat from the lack of a cooling fan inside the elevator...well, there was little I could say to that affect. At this point, he was right—if I stepped outside this elevator, I was dead, be it by a random patient's hand or his.

I figured _why stop now_?

So with little reason, I pulled off my blouse and bra, and I started to feel very self-conscious about this entire thing until Joker pulled down his pants and placed himself between my legs. He snatched my hands that attempted to act out my remaining morality, and placed them above my head. I quietly thanked him for taking what little control I still attempted to keep. Joker gazed at me amusingly when I did so.

His body pressed against mine—not one part of him was soft. There was a lot of toned muscular definition.

"You know," Joker uttered lightly, "It's not every day I get to know a morally loose officer like you, Kate."

To this day, the statement perturbs me. I didn't know if this was a compliment that he brought from his heart, or it was just a point of observation. I knowingly hedged the moral lines of society, and the brink of madness. I wanted to be like his kind—madness in its pure blessing, or be a sociopath and not care what society thought of me. But at the same time, I wanted to keep what little sanity I had, for it was the only link I had to a normal life, a small connection with humanity.

"It's a compliment," Joker stated.

I smiled at him: "Do me a favor."

"Hm?" Joker returned, interested.

I didn't give him a warning when I broke my wrist restraints, grabbed his neck and switched positions so I straddled his waist, and grinned devilishly at him.

"Stop talking." I told him.

Joker grinned up at me.

I held him just underneath me so when I sank down, I could feel him fill me completely. I let out a quiet moan, which only grew as I lowered my body onto him. I kissed his neck at first with my lips, then with my tongue. He made no attempt to get me off him, although I'm sure he could have done so if that's what he wanted.

"I do have one question though," I muttered.

"Mm?"

"Am I in your Hall of Fame?" I breathed.

Joker smirked, "I was sure you'd forgotten about that."

"Cullson's on it too," I muttered. "And Lyle. Am I?"

"I figured you'd have assumed that you are as well."

"So I am," I guessed.

Joker smirked at me saying, "Do you want to be?"

"That's not my question."

"I thought you didn't want me to talk," Joker reminded.

"I lied."

Joker chuckled, "You honest ones crack me up."

"Maybe I'm not that honest," I offered quietly.

"Didn't think you were," Joker returned knowingly. He placed his hands on my hips, guiding me. As I lifted, he'd pull out; as I lowered, he'd move his hips to center back. The feeling was new to me, but I'd always wanted to try the top position, and oh, was it great. And apparently, it was the same for him. Joker emitted a very pleasurable sigh when I sank onto him this time, and my stomach turned pleasantly at the sound.

I kept my balance with my hands on his chest, my nails so often dug into his skin when I felt a small part of me within was touched that had never been before; it opened my mind to all the muscles I never realized I had.

Despite the nice pace, I wanted more sparks.

I quickened the speed. I think at one point Joker attempted to control the pace but I grabbed his hands from my waist and pinned his wrists on the ground of the elevator, on either side of his shoulders. Joker smirked up at me—whether this was out of his own mischief or I'd done something out of my boundaries (clearly, I had), I was uncertain but I ignored any red flags. In time, I was feeling hot and bothered, more so than usual...was it him causing that, or was it because of the general lack of air conditioning? I wasn't sure, but I didn't stop the hard ride.

I felt him submit to me prior to my internal release. It overtook me in a sense that was almost frightening and incredible at the same time. It hit me just as quickly, and I damn near screamed in bliss as I came.

I opened my eyes when the euphoria passed, panting, sweating, and looking like a hot mess—or that's what I assumed I'd look like. No mirrors to know for sure.

I glanced down at Joker, who was genuinely smiling at me.

"You're good." Joker stated, licking his left scar thoughtfully. "I'll give you that."

I moved off him, and he got to his feet. We dressed quietly, then I looked at him pointedly.

"What _is_ your Hall of Fame?" I asked lightly.

Joker brushed a hand through his hair then turned to me curiously.

"Well," sighed Joker, "you already know half the members on it, Bambi. And you're a smart woman—think about it."

I thought about it—after I registered that he called me a smart woman.

_Lyle. Cullson. Myself._

_ We were on his "Hall of Fame", a wall he'd built inside his mind. It was a wall on which our names had been written. What was common among the three of us? We both worked in this place...that was one thing. And aside from seemingly being morally..._

I looked at Joker, who grinned when I apparently had figured it out.

"You don't have a hit list," I stated.

"You were right about that the first time," Joker stated, pulling his orange uniform top over his head and then holding his hands out to me. "I wasn't lying about that."

"It's a shopping list." I stated.

Joker chuckled, saying, "I wouldn't have put it _that_ way, but sure."

"Good luck with Cullson," I offered knowingly.

Joker eyed me curiously saying, "Why would I need luck?"

"Because he's incorruptible," I explained. "You already know Lyle is finished, what with him beating you up week after week, and whenever I get the video feed of him doing it. And you have proof of my loose morale."

Joker smirked saying, "I've had fun getting it."

I rolled my eyes: "That's beside the pint—Cullson is as morally constructed as they come. He's like an African American Batman...minus the suit, the armored car, the acrobatics, and the guttural growl."

"Two out of three," said Joker, miming the numbers with his hand, "Those are great odds."

"If that's what you're after," I returned. I frowned: "I guess getting the footage proof on Lyle is pretty much a moot cause now, since I'll probably die when I step off this elevator."

"That's just negative thinking," Joker mused.

"How is there a silver lining?" I asked.

Joker brushed his hand in my hair, and the other went to my neck as he pushed me against the doors (This was familiar). I looked at him and was frightened by his suggestive glower.

"I can kill you if that'll make you feel better," Joker offered, smirking at me. "That's your second option."

"What was the first?"

"Boy, your memory gets a little hazy after sex, doesn't it?" Joker inquired, laughing. "The first option was free, this one comes with a price."

"What, I have to _pay_ for you to kill me?" I asked.

"Well, not necessarily," Joker returned. "If killing you is anywhere near amusing as it is fucking you, I'd do it for free...personally." He continued half-seriously, "If that's what you want."

"I'm still chancing the ground level," I told him quietly.

Joker sighed, "Gonna do it the hard way, huh? Woman after my own heart." He tapped my hard on the cheek, then made a gesture for me to move aside, so I did so.

"I can give you a way out," Joker said as he stood directly under the hatch above.

"How?"

"Take this," Joker said, pointing to the dolly, "Use it as leverage against the door. Eventually, it has to come loose. If not, then we're facing starvation, heat stroke—and anything in between. Personally, I still look forward to having another conversation with Batman, so I'm looking to try if I may."

I gazed at him coolly, saying, "I'm still waiting for the price."

Joker smirked at me: "Playing hard ball, aren't we?"

"You're offering me a chance to get out of this hell hole while there's a massive prison break," I told him. "Not a lot of criminals do that for free."

"I'm no ordinary criminal," said Joker distractedly as he flipped the dolly on its handle so the platform faced upwards; the thing was heavy, so I was half-surprised to see him do it with little effort. I looked at him pointedly.

"That aside," I stated. "What do you want?"

Joker smiled as he returned: "I want your trust."

"I can't trust you," I replied.

"No, you can't." Joker agreed, smiling still. He took my hand and kissed the back saying, "Trust my 'insanity'."

He rolled his eyes at the last, probably aware of his insanity but lacking in the compliment of other people calling him crazy. He raised his eyebrows when I sighed with reluctance.

"By helping me out of this situation, I'll knowingly be helping you escape." I told him. "That's the price."

Joker chuckled, "Nothing gets past you."

I thought about it. I missed Gary—I didn't realize I'd miss him so much and feel guilty about how snide I'd been with him of late. I missed Scott and Cullson—I hoped they somehow got out of this place before all hell broke loose. I missed Catherine and Lori—I hoped the best for them. However, my job wasn't finished, even if it was corrupted by Joker's offers...I still had to find my proof that Lyle had been abusing his rights as Head of Security. If this place survived another prison break out, and was restored, Lyle would be unstoppable as a higher Head of Security, and the abuse would continue.

Joker waited for me to answer to his options.

"I'll help you out of here," I told him. "As long as you do me a favor."

"Favor?" Joker repeated. "Ooh, what _kind_ of favor?"

"I need to get into the Camera Room," I said, "Into Lyle's office, and find out what he's been hiding in this cabinet."

"No key?"

"He has a key," I said. "But he keeps it with him. And I'm not great at lockpicking."

Joker chuckled, "Well, when one lacks in one field, they more than compensate in another." He wiggled his eyebrows at me provocatively.

I shook my head.

"Let's get out of this damn box." I told him.

Joker and I held the dolly center of the hatch, the steel plated platform aimed at it. When we heaved up at it three times, and it didn't budge, I growled irritably. Joker smiled at my frustration.

"No worries, Officer," Joker drawled. "If it was that easy, _everyone_ would do it."

Five more times of bringing that plate up to the hatch. Nothing. I glanced at the side door, wondering if there was any electrical wiring that could be played around with but there wasn't even a small door to open. Had there been, I might have slapped myself mentally for not having thought of it earlier.

I might have taken a mental slapping over this physical labor.

We set the dolly down after a twenty-time hit, and I looked at Joker tiredly.

"Giving up, Bambi?" Joker asked, smirking at my exhaustion.

"I'm not giving up," I said. "I'm getting pissed."

Saying so, I picked up the dolly by myself and then rammed the fucking thing at the ceiling hard enough to make a sound that hurt my ears. Joker winced at the sound and then I realized what was happening. The elevator had budged and we were descending to the ground floor...but hardly stopping. I figured that one out when the floor of the elevator met the ground floor; the force of the impact shot both of us to the ground. I grunted when my face smacked the dolly, but other than that, I was peachy.

"Fucking thing," I growled.

"Well, that couldn't have gone better," Joker giggled, getting to his feet.

I did the same. Joker looked at me pointedly. The expression was for the obvious: we were on the ground floor; the alarm that was nearly mute in the elevator was as audible and noticeable as the air I could feel when the fan started working again. The alarm was loud—and also the code for a prison break.

_Fuck._

"Which direction is Lyle's office?" Joker asked.

"Left."

"And the front door?"

"Right," I answered, knowing I was risking my safety just to get this small amount of blackmail.

"Second option is still available," Joker offered.

"My offer is too." I stated.

Joker smiled at me—I was willing to help him escape just as long as I got out too. If I could save a few people along the way, it'd be worth chancing my escape and having the free ability to blackmail Lyle and get him out of the system. I believed people like him made the system corrupt.

Joker and I pulled open the elevator doors, and I frowned when I heard the screaming of both patients, security officers, nurses, and doctors alike.

"Stay close," Joker told me.

"Why are you even helping me?" I asked.

Joker looked at me, saying, "I'm not a monster, Kate. I'm ahead of the curve. Plus, we have a deal. I won't back out of a bargain, especially one made with a woman."

He stepped out of the elevator, offering his hand.

I took it.

As I stepped out of the elevator, Joker added, "I'm a man of my word."

I glanced at my feet, seeing a dead Cullson. I held back the tears. From the looks of it, his attacker had surprised him; he still held a dirty mop in his hand. Joker cleared his throat, so I looked at him; he made a gesture to keep on moving so despite my sadness for my fallen friend—my only friend in this place—I stepped over his dead body and followed behind the Joker, who at this point, was my only way of getting out of this place.


	28. Steal Me

**I've Been Wrong Before**

- Author's Note: Don't worry, kids. I'll update again with the night, promise. I just thought this was a great chapter all by itself. Hehe. XD Thank you for the reviews, I love you guys 3

**/**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Steal Me**

You would think that any one whom owned a gun would make sure it was loaded before ever thinking of carrying it around. You would think after their supervisor consistently warned them to keep the gun loaded that the person would always have their weapon at the ready whenever the necessity to use it shown its ugly head. But you'd also be wrong to think that I would actually do any of these things.

Forget the fact that I didn't keep extra bullets with me _to_ load my unloaded gun. Forget the fact that I left my holstered weapon in the elevator, along with the night stick and flash light because I was so heartbroken to see Cullson, dead at my feet. Forget the fact that unsettling emergency alarm was going off in my ear, and the fact that I was walking behind one of the most unpredictable killers Gotham City had ever seen—forget the fact that I was trapped in an asylum full of freed patients (murderous and the like) and most of my backup was probably dead.

Now, if you could forget all that, I'd be looking really smart and brave.

But how could you forget any of that? Trust me, I tried. For the past ten minutes, Joker and I were walking (well, _he_ was walking; I was walking on metaphorical egg shells) down the white hallway. I was anxious, yes, but I wasn't feeling too hot when the alarm actually _stopped_ sounding.

Then all was quiet.

At the sound of silence, Joker's footsteps and mine synced to a halt in that precise moment. I did smile a little to see his arm extend in front of me, to stop me from walking any further. A little protective, was he not?

"Why did it stop?" Joker asked.

He looked at me pointedly, so I shrugged.

"It doesn't stay on very long," I relayed what I knew about it. "It's an automatic switch off...or someone manually silenced it."

"What are the odds that the sound would actually get on anyone's nerves?" Joker offered rhetorically, smiling at the statement alone.

"Great."

"What?"

I smiled uneasily saying, "You asked how great the odds were—so I said they were great."

"I was speaking ironically."

"I know, that's the joke." I returned.

Joker gazed at me for a second then cracked a smile: "You're funny."

We came to two-way intersection. Left. Right.

"You know," sighed Joker smoothly, "you know these halls better than I do. Technically, you should be leading."

"But why break the habit, right?" I returned smoothly, surprised by how calm I sounded.

Joker glanced at me again, saying, "I'm stating the obvious."

"Yeah, but you're such a _great_ leader," I responded half-seriously.

"Flattery will get you everywhere but out of this mess, Kitten," Joker returned.

"It it isn't flattery if it is true."

I stepped past Joker, however, when he extended his hand to any given direction so I glanced past the wall and started down the right hallway. He followed me; I was very aware that he was directly behind me, just at my heels. When his voice echoed just in my right ear, I startled a bit, but in spite of my anxiety, I was a little aroused—the fucker could do this to me and it befuddled me why.

"You think I'm a great leader, do you?" Joker drawled.

"In a matter of speaking, yes," I stated. "A year ago, you had all kinds of people working for you—aside from half of them being insane or otherwise, you must've attracted them _somehow_."

"Surely not by the same circumstance I caught _your_ fancy." Joker mused, knowingly.

I stopped in the hallway when I saw two fallen men...they were dressed in orange uniforms, so I knew from the start that they belonged on Level 2, but they weren't faces I could recollect immediately. It did bare to me the fact that a person didn't look quite the same alive as they did lying face down on the floor, dead...inanimate objects.

It didn't phase Joker the slightest; he just side-stepped my frozen frame, and walked on. I quickly hurried after him, walking on his left rather than behind; I didn't want to seem a coward, walking behind a criminal. But at the same time, my legs were shaking with a fear that I knew too well—the same kind I felt when Victor Zsass had me in his grasp, the knife on my...

_Oh, _**_hell_**.

The thought didn't occur to me until now that Victor, too, was loose somewhere around here. He'd definitely take me up on that promise—he'd hurt me again because he was free. Damn it..

_O__h shit, __oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._

Joker glanced at me curiously, seeing my expression.

"Stop looking like that."

I glanced at Joker, saying, "Looking like what?"

"Scared," Joker stated, pointing at me.

"I can't help it—I _am_ scared."

"Then hide it." Joker ordered.

"Why?"

Joker smirked at me: "As much as I like seeing other people scared, the expression doesn't suit you. It'll cause worry lines. Fear ages people, trust me. If you live in fear all your life, you'll lose more than just a few years. Why do you think Bruce Wayne looks as good as he does?"

I stared at Joker incredulously. I didn't mind the segue from my fearful realization, but did Joker just call me 'beautiful'?

"Assuming Bruce Wayne doesn't feel fear?" I offered, inquisitive to his point.

Joker rolled his eyes, gesticulating as he spoke: "Oh, I'm sure he feels it—all the rich and wealthy people have something to lose, even when they think they don't. No, I'm talking about his surroundings. The Upper parts of Gotham have nothing to fear—when they surround themselves with body guards."

In spite of my nerves, I smirked at Joker, who raised his eyebrows in light of my new expression.

"Did I say something to make you smile?" Joker asked.

"Not really, but it did open my eyes to the fact that _you_ could still scare Bruce Wayne."

"Oh really," chuckled Joker, obviously in the mood to be humored. "Why's that?"

I shrugged, saying, "You said he and the other wealthy people surround themselves with body guards. You can get to them anyway."

Joker smiled genuinely and said, "Like I said, flattery will get you places, Doll Face, but it won't get you out of this situation." He added, "I'm a strong man, but I'm not stupid—working past body guards takes a lot of work and effort, and luck."

"But they only guard that much." I reasoned.

We stopped walking—not really out of any warning signs, but Joker turned to me.

I continued: "Body guards are hired only to do just that. Guard bodies."

"So what's your point?" asked Joker, looking at me intently.

The expression made my body tingle, but aside from my small annoying arousal around this character, I said cleverly, "If they're so busy guarding bodies, who can protect their minds?"

Joker chewed on the inner side of his cheek with some thoughtful appeal, then made a small laugh, smiling at me.

He drawled: "You know how to make a man feel really good about himself, Kate." With that, he placed his hand just under my jaw, his thumb stroked my bottom lip while his eyes gazed intently into mine when he purred, "When we're done with this fiasco, I might have to steal you."

Talk about being intimidated and aroused all at the same time!


	29. Make Me Stop

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

_Chapter Twenty-Nine: Make Me Stop_

_(())_

_I might have to steal you._

I'm sorry, what?

_Steal me? Did he just..._

I was about to ponder Joker's words, and the very unsettling (but equally pleasing) intensity of his gaze until the both of us turned in the direction from where we just came. Ode to the footsteps quickly tapping on the tile floor. (In the next minute, they'd beat, nevermore.)

"I guess they're trying to run for the exits," I stated, referring to the quick steps.

Joker still had my chin in his hand, so I continued to look at him. He continued to gaze at me in deep thought then with a flicker of his eyes to the hall, Joker drawled, "I'm more interested in what he's running away from."

_That crossed my mind, but I'd rather not know._

Joker licked his scars, perplexed by the sound that was gradually coming towards us. He dropped his hand from my face, smiled at me, and then inclined his head in a nonverbal order for me to get behind him. In return, I looked vexed; clearly, he could tell that I was not used to other people fighting my battles. He chuckled when I remained on his left as the oncoming traffic appeared. I wasn't too shocked to see that it was Cecil O'Brien, running...but I was surprised to see that he was here, not in jail.

Breathless, the man stopped, seeing me, but he took out his gun the moment he recognized the Joker. I'd momentarily forgotten that some of these people owed Joker an apology for beating him up week after week. Joker didn't react to a gun being drawn at his face, but he did smile knowingly at Cecil's fear. Cecil glanced at me quickly.

"Come on, Richardson—we have to move, _now_. I'll save you from..."

"Self-destruction?" Joker offered when Cecil merely glared at the former.

Cecil opened his mouth to demand why Joker thought he was my own self-destruction but I didn't give him the luxury of coming up with a smart comment that would make me want to kill him as well. Provided that I snatched his gun, clicked it so that the cartridge of new ammo dropped at my feet, and handed the thing back to him. Cecil stared at me, shocked, puzzled, and utterly perplexed as I stared right back at him.

"You shoot my patients," I threatened, "I'm coming after you personally. You can use it as a club."

Cecil stared at me, still, then watched as Joker stepped closer to me. He made a move to 'save' me from some kind of impending death; just as he did, Joker moved me roughly aside so Cecil was harshly face planted to the ground and Joker had his hands around the back of the man's neck, shoving his face into the tile. Apparently, the pressure was painful since Cecil was thrashing around. Joker chuckled, turning the guy's head so Cecil stared up at me, attempting to plea but I was still taken aback by how quickly Joker moved. In the time it took for Cecil to move towards me, Joker had already disarmed a security officer (he snatched the gun, throwing it aside, and now it was lying near my feet), got him on the ground, and the said officer was helpless to the world around him.

Unless the Joker planned on squishing his face to the floor to death, I hardly saw the threat in Cecil's current situation; other than the fact that Joker straddling his lower back might give Cecil some discomfort—the latter was bit of a homophobe and anything closely linked to the sexuality made him uncomfortable. I smirked when Cecil began to look mildly uncomfortable; how did he know that Joker wasn't planning something...interesting?

"Where are your friends now, O'Brien?" Joker mused, lowering his face to look at Cecil.

"Get off me, you..."

Joker had turned Cecil's face so the man was now mumbling angrily into the tile floor. I cocked my head to the side as Joker rolled his eyes, smirking at the latter, then looked at me.

"Didn't your parents teach you anything, little pig? If you don't have anything nice to say..." Joker drawled as he pulled back Cecil's head by his hair (the officer cringed and whimpered at the fresh pain of his hair being yanked)—Joker growled the last, "_Don't say anything **at all**." _

I flinched when Joker slammed Cecil's head into the tile floor so hard that the tile cracked, the blood from his face poured, and the man moved no longer. It then occurred to me that I just watched one of my fellow men die. Joker sighed, a bit breathless, as he stood to his feet, wiped his hands of this mess, then turned to me.

I guess he expected my sudden act of vengeance for he grabbed my wrists the moment I started fighting him. He laughed in spite of my anger, pushing my back against the wall. Then, Joker pushed his body against mine so I was out of room to even fight him; with my wrists restrained in his hands, which were held against his chest, I stared at him angrily.

Just as I was filled with hate for the man that killed one of my own (despite my apathetic feelings for Cecil personally), I was also feeling a great amount of uncertainty. To see Joker in action after knowing what he did a year ago...I guess it was like seeing the beast in a real fight rather than being locked away in a zoo. In a way, I was amazed to see such violence come out of one man and then be dismissed of it so easily—as if killing a man was that easy...so easy to do.

Joker smirked at me still, and I wondered why.

He let my hands go in a slow movement. I didn't see his right hand move to my jaw, nor the left to caress the nape of my neck; I was aware of it, but still placed in a state of shock.

"Do you still think I'm a great leader _now_," Joker breathed.

I stared at him still...what did I think?

I didn't think anything. Nothing.

But I did realize that, in a certain light, Joker was a great leader. I'd seen how quickly he reacted to a situation. I saw him disarm a man that normally would have fought until Kingdom come. I saw him take control of his situation that seemed ten minutes ago hardly winnable. And yet, there was a dead man not but three feet away.

These men beat the fuck out of Joker, and yet, he was still smiling too. I stared at the Joker. Yes, I thought he was a great leader, as far as leadership was concerned. But that didn't mean I had to think of him as a good man—I never once thought that.

"Yes." I answered finally.

Joker smiled at me: "'Yeah'?" He giggled quietly: "You never cease to amaze me."

"How?" I asked.

"How what?"

"How do I amaze you?" I questioned spitefully.

Joker stepped away from me, smirking as he did. It was the knowledge of what he'd done and yet, I was not fighting anymore. He'd gotten away with it, without having to fight me for Cecil's ended life. Joker held out his arms in a way that almost invited me to him, but I knew it was a point of performance.

"You're so _dir-_ect." Joker stated. "I don't see that often. Especially from people in your departmen_t_."

"My department is direct." I stated, a bit offended by this.

"Sure, when they wanna be," said Joker, turning from me to start down the hall.

I hurried to keep up with him. Despite the fact that I wanted to hide Cecil from anyone that saw him, I didn't want to be left alone. Plus, he was my chance of getting to Lyle's secret cabinet, getting the information I needed to stop men like him from corrupting the system. That, and we had a deal. I glanced behind at Cecil, wishing I could cover his body with something—a blanket, anything. While I didn't like the guy even after watching him die, I didn't want any doctors or nurses to see that one of the officers of the law had been taken down. You wanna talk hopelessness—that was a good hint as any.

(())

We were down two corridors. I walked slightly ahead of the Joker while he strolled behind me. So far, we'd passed fifteen dead bodies—most of them were nurses, orderlies. None of them I noticed—then again, I was working nights these days so the new faces made me wonder just what their lives had been like before they'd been placed in this hell hole. I recognized one of the dead nursing assistants, immediately saddened by the fact that she had only been working here for two weeks. Now she was lying on her back with a knife stuck in her neck—the blade embedded all the way through.

I stooped beside her shoulders, glaring at the body. I wanted to know the patient that did this, but at this point, I had a choice of one out of thirty-something. Even more than that, considering there were other levels of this hospital that were on the same floor as Level 1 and 2. In all, there were five levels—but only 1,2, and 3 counted the floors.

Joker watched me take the handle of the blade and pull it out quickly, wincing a little when I could feel the bone snap in this woman's neck. I glanced at the blood on the knife, and quickly used the woman's scrub uniform as a makeshift napkin. When it was half-clean of red, I placed my hand on the girl's forehead, uttered a soft 'sorry', then straightened. Joker had been watching me with a kind of half-amused expression on his face.

"What?" I questioned, immediately annoyed by his joy.

Joker shrugged.

"Nothing," he said.

"Not 'nothing'." I returned unhappily. "You're not smiling just for shits and giggles."

When I approached him, I didn't realize I was gesticulating to him with the knife until his eyes flickered at the thing. He didn't look scared. No, in fact, he looked mildly interested with what I was going to do with it. Now that I had a weapon...

"What if I am?" Joker asked, leaning forward. "What would you _do_?"

At the challenge, I frowned.

"I'm not killing you." I said.

"That was a _big_ leap," Joker replied, giggling. "I never said anything about killing me."

"I know that's what you're thinking," I stated, looking at him. "You think because after I've watched you kill Cecil that somehow, suddenly, I'd snap and start killing people out of my own self-loathing, and righteousness."

Joker shrugged: "It's occurred to me, yeah."

"Then you're wrong." I returned.

"Well, I've been wrong before—that's nothing new to me." Joker returned nonchalantly. "But if you're not out for vengeance, maybe you'd fancy something more your speed."

I eyed him suspiciously. Anything to do with knives, I didn't trust the Joker. Anything to do with vengeance, or relative means of that nature, I was taking caution. Joker stepped towards me menacingly; that was my hint to step back, and I placed the blade in front of me.

_Unpredictable._

The thought crossed my mind as a warning flag, so I watched every part of him as close as I could. Joker grinned when I did so.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're thinking." Joker offered.

"Yeah, well, the thought occurred to me." I stated.

"Honest, immoral, _and_ paranoid," Joker mused, smirking. "I can't help but think we were simply meant to be."

I stared at him. Truthfully, he disarmed me by the statement. It never crossed my mind that I could change him. I never once thought he and I were meant to be together in the end, or that we'd share a happy ending, or he'd become a nice man after knowing me. Being soul mates had never appealed to me...but...

"Do you believe in Karma, Kate?" Joker asked, crossing his arms as if he and I were talking about our kids on the playground, rather than having been placed in an odd situation where I felt he was after my neck.

"Yes." I answered honestly.

"Then I don't have to tell you that O'Brien had it comin'," Joker stated casually.

"No. You don't. But you didn't have to kill him."

"No, I didn't. However, that was pleasure, not business, Pet."

"Is this business?" I asked—I was under the impression he was about to kill me, anyway. I might as well know the situation.

"No," Joker returned.

In seconds, he had me on my back—not in the good way. I grunted with the impact of my body being slammed onto the tile, and I was aware that my back and hair was being soaked in the nursing assistant's pool of blood. Joker and I wrestled, despite him straddling my stomach. Inevitably, he took the knife; but to my surprise, he threw it behind him as if it didn't matter to him.

His hands grabbed either side of my face and his mouth shoved onto mine. My mind screamed "wrong mood, wrong mood!" but I didn't deny that this roughness had my loins burning. Still, to keep what little humanity I had left, I wrestled underneath him, attempting to wriggle from his kiss, his hands, and away from his body.

I shoved my hands against his chest to give any amount of space between us, but Joker laughed it off, as if my thrown punches hurt him as much as a mosquito did when it landed. I growled furiously, even when he had me pinned down completely. With a loud infuriated shriek, I still thrashed.

"There's that anger of yours—getting you into trouble..." Joker purred.

I heard him even as I'd shrieked.

"How about you utilize that rage of yours, hm?" Joker suggested.

When I didn't answer, he leaned back, taking the knife I'd withdrawn from the body beside me, and placed it my hands.

"Use it," Joker said quietly.

"You want me to stab you?" I asked.

"Well, 'cut', 'stab', 'slice'...you know, all of it is pretty much the same when you get down and dirty," Joker explained loosely. In a deep voice that resonated in his chest, he groaned, "Speaking of dirty..." He wiggled his lower half and I quieted my moan when I felt his hard-on against my navel.

"Do it," Joker encouraged, smiling. "Do it for O'Brien, or, hell, this woman you never knew." He indicated the nursing assistant. "Or—how about all the people I've killed in the past. The pigs in the MCU that died when the bomb went off, or Rachel Dawes...you know, I don't think she enjoyed the fireworks as much as me; she was burned on the last few."

I stared at him, incredulous to his provoking remarks. I didn't know Rachel Dawes personally but the fact that he talked about her as if she was a joke made me glare at him.

"Or..." Joker purred, "If the dead don't do it for you..."

I stared at him when he lowered his frame to mine, how they molded together.

"Do it because you feel the way you shouldn't when I do _this_."

Joker shoved his mouth on mine so hard that it hurt, flicking his tongue between my lips as they forced their invitation inside. Aroused by the dominance he exerted, and surprised (and disgusted) by my sudden submission and desire for him, I attempted to resist; I pursed my lips together, to keep him at bay but I was disarmed by the moan Joker emitted when his hips grinded against mine—and to my shock, my hips responded.

"Stop..." I whimpered—out of self-loathing, yes, but simultaneously, a need.

Joker placed his hand on my jaw and with the grasp, he pushed back my head, exposing my neck. He kissed my throat with his tongue then trailed to my earlobe, which I felt him nibble. His voice growled darkly: "Make me stop."

Ooh, the challenge...

What reaction I'd expected from myself was vengeance and maybe a happy opportunity to cut him for his sexual assault on all five of my senses. Instead, I felt it was more dirty talk than anything. However, that didn't stop me from wielding what little self-righteousness I imposed, and continue battling for what I felt was a losing war. None the less, I needed to have my morality win over what...was...

My thoughts were becoming more obscured when Joker uttered, "You want me more than you realize, Pidgeon. You're trying to be what everyone else wants you to be...righteous, obedient, law-abiding..." His hand left my neck to move between our lower appendages, "empathetic, self-restrained..." I felt his fingers slip inside the front of my pants, smoothing over the mesh material of my underwear to cup his palm over my wet center, "Officer Ka**t**e."

I quivered under his touch.

"I represent everything you're against," Joker purred. "Isn't that what you told me in the beginning?"

"Yes..." I managed—my breathing was getting a little harder to control.

"I bet your husband is the only thing controlling whom I believe to be is the _real_ Katelynn Richardson."

I stared at him incredulously.

"You don't know anything about..."

"Oh, sh, sh, sh," Joker silenced.

I stifled a moan when his fingers moved between my underwear and my flesh, sliding them over the source of all my discomfort. He sent me a crooked smile when he felt my wetness. I couldn't even deny any more that I didn't want him, even after witnessing a violent crime. Now the world could witness a sexual one.

"Your marriage is on the rocks," Joker sighed softly, "That's _not_ your fault—all marriages die, whether by death or a husband's neglect."

I glared at Joker—It wasn't Gary's fault that my marriage was diluted. It was mine.

"It's not his fault," I voiced my indignant thoughts.

Joker smirked saying, "Of course it's not." He chuckled: "It's nice to see someone can admit their own flaws—you don't see that often, especially in a place like this. Or from a woman."

_Wow, that was a low blow, wasn't it_? _Battle of the Sexes all over again. At least Gary's not arguing that females have the flexibility trait so Twister is a no-win for the males...or..._

Joker wiggled his fingers against my sex and I damn near cried out—it felt too good for all the bad reasons.

"Stop!" I hissed.

"Or what?" Joker asked. "You'll cut me? C'mon, if you were up for any of that fun, you'd already have—"

Joker grunted, falling off me when I slashed the knife over his arm. When I got to my feet, Joker was already on his, holding his left forearm, which was already oozing with blood. He glanced at it briefly, then smiled at me proudly.

"You didn't even get past the skin," Joker stated. "You might as well not have even cut me to begin with."

I threw the knife at him and it struck the wall, the handle quivering as the blade remained in an erect position. Joker observed its fine lining, then smiled at me.

"That was by design," I told him. "You want a deeper one, give me the knife and I'll be happy to satisfy. This time, I won't disappoint."

Joker chuckled, wrenching the knife from the wall, and then tossed it to me. I caught it by the blade, looking at him curiously.

"We'll have time for more knife play, I'm sure. Best shove on before we get distracted again," Joker instructed professionally.

I warily began walking beside him. I startled when I felt him spank my ass as he continued ahead of me, a mischievous grin planted on his face. I watched after him, uncertain as to what had happened. I'm sure I'd get the bigger picture in the end. However, now wasn't the time for reminisce and pondering; I still had to get the damn videos from Lyle's cabinet, and then later, somehow find a way out of here without getting either of us killed.


	30. I'm His

**I'd Been Wrong Before**

**Author's Note:** _Thank you, beautiful people, for your wonderful reviews. I'm happy to hear that a lot of you enjoyed the last chapter, hehe. Not ashamed to say that I'd planned on Cecil dying from the very beginning, but oh well—what do you do. Read on! XD_

_Chapter Thirty: I'm His_

_/_

I could smell the blood on me. My back was covered with it from when Joker pinned me down on the floor, right in the bloody puddle that had originally been circulating inside the unnamed nursing assistant. I figured she was better off—the people who were still alive in this hospital were the unlucky folk. Strangely, I wasn't discomforted by my current situation.

I was walking alongside a very much wanted criminal whose name was unknown but he commonly went by The Joker. I was willing to walk with him uneasily down a hall that occasionally was decorated by bloody hand prints of people who'd died on the floor just as their hands marked their point of demise. I grimaced at a few familiar faces, seeing them as corpses—you'd be ignorant to think that people looked asleep when they're dead. No...they were hardly asleep...they were gone in all spiritual and physiological definitions of the word. As I continued hall to hall, the bodies increased—some of them were patients who unsuccessfully fought their way to escape; some of the more aggressive blue Level 1 uniforms had taken their orderlies with them.

One doctor had their head halfway decapitated; why that was the case was beyond me, but I didn't stand over her body long enough to ponder the reason of the half-assed job. I felt sick when Joker and I went down another hall—along with seeing the dead bodies of people I'd spoken to a day ago before this gruesome incident, I was also walking around with the blood of an innocent on my back.

The locker room was just ahead, so I made a quick detour with the goal of changing clothes. Joker followed wordlessly, curious to my sudden ambitious high-tailing walk. When I opened the door, I stopped suddenly. Joker caught up casually to my right, and smiled when he, too, was engaged in the scene.

Officer Scott Pritchard was lying on the bench, on his back; he looked sick, pale. Like me. I then realized shortly that he was also impaled in the side with a large butcher knife—probably found in the kitchen, which was clear across the hospital. I couldn't tell if he'd been stabbed just recently or he had scrambled to the locker room from the kitchen for safety.

When I approached him, Scott shook his head ever so slightly.

I opened my mouth to speak, but then suddenly, Joker reached his hands around my mouth and then pulled me into the small shower room; just as Joker had predicted, I yelped, but my startling scream became muffled. He closed the wooden door that divided the men's locker room and shower room halfway, probably so he could still hear what was going on. I shook my head furiously, attempting to pry Joker's hands off my mouth but he insisted on keeping them there. I glared at him, then saw his expression.

Joker looked serious. It was the most disturbing expression he seemed to possess, considering that I'd always seen him smile—maniacally or genuine. My face fell when I heard the footsteps, and I began to feel grateful for Joker's sudden action...but that only meant Scott was about to meet his trouble or come close to ending it.

I looked at Joker again when the footsteps stopped. Was it a cue for me to break in and save Scott's life? Who was the intruder in the locker room that had come to finish the job? Were they rescuing him...or doing something less noble? The irritating question gnawed on my morality, and my need to save one of my closest friends, one of the last remaining few I could still keep.

Joker still had his hands over my mouth but one had withdrawn to vertically place his index finger over his own...silently telling me to stay quiet. I nodded, then he freed my face completely from any muffling restraint. He nodded at the floor; realizing his instructions, I got down on my knees and looked out the door while Joker stood over me, doing the same.

I never figured Joker to be the type to take so much caution.

Having said so, one could understand why my nerves were jangled.

Of what did the Joker need to be afraid?

_ He's not afraid,_ my mind whispered. _He wants to see this play out. _

When I glanced out of the door, I wasn't happy to see that it was Victor Zsass. In fact, I felt suddenly so lost and vulnerable that the very feeling made me even _more_ nervous. My legs suddenly became a bowl of fearful jelly, my bones shaking in their skin. Despite my need to run, I was frozen...by a mistaken sense of safety provided that Joker was behind me.

"Well, well, well..." Victor drawled.

The very sound of a relaxed mischievous tone made my skin crawl unpleasantly.

"Kill me..." Scott ordered strongly, "Or get out."

"That's an odd request," said Victor, "considering you're not who I'm after."

"Oh yeah?" chided Scott. "Go after the guy that stabbed me. I'd thank you for it."

I smiled—in spite of meeting his death, Scott could be such an asshole. It was a relief to me that Victor didn't initially stab him, but that didn't make his presence any more appealing. Scott was bleeding from the knife wound; the reason he was lying on the bench was because he had lost so much blood and the weakness had gotten to him. He was there to die...unless I could stop it.

"You're funny, _Officer_ Pritchard," Victor drawled. "Very funny—I kinda liked you."

From the small vision I had, I saw Victor twirling an old-fashioned razor in his hand; the type older barbers would flick from the handle and with which they'd give close shaves. I was deeply reminded of the old play _Sweeney Todd_ but I wished my mind wouldn't replay such a gory musical number. Victor approached Scott carefully, side-stepping the officer who looked just as harmful as I did.

"Funny," Scott uttered weakly, although I admired him for the attempt of strength in his deadly circumstance, "I never liked you."

"Shame," Victor said. "I was gonna kill you really quick, put you down as a half-tally on my arm. I guess I'll just give you no tally and call this a freebie. Besides, zombies like you deserve less than that kind of totem...you're not even fit for a trophy dot."

Scott laughed at Victor's method of tallying victims on his body for all the victims he'd 'transformed' from their dull, pathetic lives. Obviously, Scott thought his life was anything but dull. He was dying from a knife wound and speaking to one of the most deadly criminals in Gotham City; life like that was hardly uninteresting. I smiled in spite of the scary scene; Scott was a brave man, or very sarcastic.

"Well," sighed Victor, "Guess it's sooner than later, right?"

"Right," Scott hissed between gritted teeth.

Victor raised the razor over his head. I sprung into action, bursting from my hiding spot.

"_Leave him alone! Don't hurt him!_"

Scott sighed with defeat, and Victor's lips tweaked into a deadly smile as he slowly turned on his heel to look at me. Then, with uneasiness, I realized that Scott had been distracting Victor from seeing me the entire time. I wondered why Scott had been provoking someone like Victor Zsass, who wouldn't hesitate to kill any living being...unless he had planned on using his last few minutes of his life in order to save my own.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." Victor drawled. His eyes flickered behind me and I glanced around to see that Joker had closed the door behind him, making his presence known. "I misspoke—look at what the _clown_ dragged in."

Before Joker could remark what I knew for sure was going to be an apathetic response, Scott shouted: "Kate, run! _Run_, Ka—AHH!"

I flinched when Victor slit Scott's neck and he died immediately. That didn't mean Scott's look of terror and desperation had gone as well. I cringed upon seeing his last expression and knowing he died with these emotions tore me apart. However, I felt immediate fear and foolishness creep inside my body as I stared at a man who had two years ago threatened my life before...and now was happy to do it again.

"Come here, little zombie. You're mine now." Victor growled with a nasty smile.

He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards him; I fought back, pushing him away, and began to flee in the other direction. I fell to the ground when he caught my leg, pulling me again and on my back. As he craned me back like a fish on a line, I growled angrily (out of terror for my life, and anger for Scott's). I glanced at Joker, whose face expressed amusement and something more terrifying. My attention was divided as Victor laughed, attempting to grab my thrashing legs. When he leaned forward to lunge for my hair, I kicked my foot up into his hovering chin, hearing him scream with pain.

He released me though, and I was happy to get off the floor. Victor wasted no time in coming after me; he started to pounce but then, to my surprise, Joker caught Victor's assaulting razor; I stared incredulously when Joker's right hand began bleeding as the blade sliced the skin...but he didn't seem too phased by it.

The look between Joker and Victor was animosity. For months, Victor had put up with Joker's pointless conversations, and Joker had listened to Victor's disrespecting remarks. Now that they were both free to do as they pleased, I figured they might have teamed up against me. Instead, Joker looked murderous, but I doubt he was after my blood.

Victor still held the razor up as though ready to slaughter but Joker's hand remained against the blade. Meanwhile, being the klutz I was, I'd tripped over the bench and now sat half on my ass and the other butt cheek was on my foot. Thank god for Joker's unpredictability, lest I'd be dead by now.

"She's mine," Victor growled furiously. "Get out the way, Clown. I've been waiting to put her on my arm for a _long_ time."

"Not long enough," Joker mused, smirking at him. "You're lacking ambition—that's less than dedicated."

"Shut up, and move."

"Not very polite—in _or_ out of your cage, are you, Vick?" Joker challenged, smirking still.

Victor dropped his hand from Joker, the razor held tightly—more like clenched—in his hand. Nostrils flaring, teeth grinding, and his lips tightened inward to a point he looked like an unhappy, growling mutt. I slowly got to my feet, watching the two of them. I figured at some point, Joker would dispatch me like he did Cecil O'Brien; I had no delusions he would. So why had I remained in the same spot when I could have fled from both killers?

Given the choice between Joker and Victor Zsass, I picked the lesser of two evils. Shamelessly, I wanted Joker to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

"I'm not gonna kill you, Clown," Victor stated—and I believed him. "But she's gonna die, one way or another."

"Yeah," Joker agreed (_I knew it_), "But not by you."

"_She's mine to kill_," Victor growled in protest. He poked Joker hard in the chest, "You ain't gonna stop me, _**Freak**_."

Joker frowned at him—I was wrong; _that_ look was far more disturbing than the serious one.

"Looks like you'll have to find a new tally for your flesh board, Vicky," Joker stated pointedly (as if this was a fact, not an opinion), "because she's not yours to kill. She and I have a deal, and I don't go back on deals. Particularly one made with a woman—they can hold onto their anger for _years_." He jerked his thumb back at me, adding: "Trust me; she's no different—if anything, she's _worse_."

"Unless you kill them," Victor offered. He flipped the razor in his hand to prove some kind of talent, saying, "And I've had years to plan Richardson's demise, oh yes. All those years of challenging me—she's got it comin', Joker. And you know it...so does she. Look how _scared_ she is."

At the taunt, I braved up. Foolish as it was, I stepped towards him.

"I'm not afraid of you," I hissed, glaring at him.

Joker side-glanced at me with an expression that was both impressed, and slightly exasperated at how easily manipulated I was, thanks to my bad temper.

Victor taunted me with his razor, waving it at me.

So I spat at his feet and snarled, "**Fuck you**."

"You're gonna die, bitch," Victor drawled happily.

He stepped forward to fulfill his promise—somehow, I found my courage not to back away, so that I maintained my ground. Joker rolled his eyes; He side-swiped Victor's hand from my direction and with strength that I was surprised to see, he punched Victor in the face.

The latter fell on his back, his head hitting the bench. The wooden piece of furniture creaked as though ready to become unhinged, and I winced with heartbreak as Scott's lifeless body thudded to the ground, due to the imbalance.

I didn't know whether to be slightly frightened or flattered that Joker was so possessive of me (or my impending death) that he was willing to go through great efforts to protect me. Then I was even more shocked, because Joker didn't stop there.

He left briefly into the shower room, humming a song I didn't recognize, and then came back with what I figured was a spare metal rod that would hang towels and wash cloths, or in this case, served to be a very good substitute for a blunt metal object. He hit Victor three times in the stomach and then once over the head—surprisingly, Victor was still conscious enough to see Joker bend on one knee, hovering over him.

"Sorry, pal, but I told you that Richardson isn't yours to kill," Joker drawled amusingly, smiling at Victor as if he truly was his friend. Joker smoothed out Victor's orange uniform shirt and then patted the man's cheek saying, "But I _did_ warn ya."

He straightened up and walked away from a very discombobulated Victor Zsass and looked at me pointedly. Knowing Joker's intention was to inevitably kill me, I found it necessary to back away from the Joker when he began strolling towards me; I squeaked uneasily when he placed his hands on my face. He recognized fear when he saw it.

"Ahh..." He sighed pleasantly (the sound distorted my fear into arousal), "_Now_ you're scared of me...aren't you, Ka**t**e?"

"Yes." I admitted.

"Honesty is a trivial trait," Joker mused as one thumb stroked my jaw from my chin to the beginning of throat, "It's admirable, but I wouldn't make it so...noticeable, especially to a guy like _me_."

"I can't lie worth a crap." I told him, smiling sarcastically. "Anyone can tell that."

"Yeah," Joker agreed, smirking. "You're right about that."

He was silent again. The intense gaze returning. I hedged when he moved forward—the thought of him choking me to death was very clear at that point so naturally, I attempted to stop whatever sick game we were playing...or he was playing; I was an unwilling participant.

_Half-willing. _

The intensity of his gaze made me shift between arousal, uncertainty, fear, and absolute terror. I shook in his hands, not just my head but my entire body. I could feel the jello in my legs returning but not the same type of fear I'd felt when Victor had stood in front of me with the full intention of murder. Yes, I felt very much afraid—who wouldn't? But this time, it was that small adrenaline rush, the lively feeling, that spark...

And that _look_ he gave me!

"Tell me what you're feeling, Kate." Joker said quietly.

I glanced from a rousing Victor, to a decaying Scott Pritchard (my heart bled for him), then to the man that was reveling in my emotions. I turned to Joker, mind and body alike, and realized that the pounding beat I kept hearing was the sound of my heart, racing at such a pace that not even the fastest drummer could time.

"I..." Words befell me.

"How does it feel to be afraid of me?" Joker asked, smiling proudly.

"Terrifying."

Joker chuckled, "I bet there's something else too."

"There isn't," I immediately objected. I didn't want him to know that his intimidation also made me feel a little warm between my legs—what the hell was _wrong_ with me!

"There is," Joker sang lightly; he laughed quietly shortly after. "You know how I know, Kate?"

"No."

"Do you wanna know?" Joker asked, his eyes narrowing in obvious delight.

"No."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," I said immediately.

"Oh, you do."

"_Oh_, I **don't**." I returned quickly.

Joker smiled. Despite my interjections, he continued, "I know you're enjoying this _because_..." He pushed his body against mine so I was slowly trapped between him and the locker doors (oh, my school girl fantasy coming true...bad, _bad_ circumstances), and I felt the unmistakable poke of a hard-on. Did this guy get aroused by everything that was related to fear?

_Maybe he's aroused for the same reason _**_you_**_ are._

_ I'm not aroused._

_ Liar._

_ Fuck._

I was lying to my own subconscious—talk about denial.

Joker moved his hands from my face and placed them on my hips; I squirmed away. But his grip was phenomenally strong, for save the fact that it hurt like hell. I'd have bruises if I ever got out of this...alive.

"I don't think I need to say more," Joker purred—his voice was deeper than usual.

And it caused an earthquake of butterflies to shake in my stomach. I could practically see the mental image of a garden that was my stomach, and every fucking flower was littered with colorful insects. I shook the garden variety picture out of my head when Joker pressed his mouth against mine. I held off as much as I could, so I could deny that what he implied was true...

The truth being that I was attracted to dangerous situations that threatened my life, mind, soul, and possible hold on sanity, reality, and what was left of my morale.

When his tongue teased my upper lip, I made a sound of objection, but Joker only responded with genuine happiness at my resistance.

"Playing hard-to-get, huh?" Joker inquired.

"I'm not playing anything," I retorted as he stepped away.

He shrugged as if my rejection didn't bother him. Most likely, it didn't. I stepped from the lockers and glanced uncertainly at Victor, who was slowly getting back to his feet. Joker cleared his throat saying, "While the oaf recuperates and figures out what he did wrong, let's go find some place more...private. Like, oh I don't know..." He grabbed my waist, bringing me to his side as close as he could, "Lyle's office, maybe?"

I grimaced when he wiggled his eyebrows.

"I'm out for justice, not to see how many places you can fuck me before the night is out, or before I'm dead." I stated unhappily—the fact that Scott was dead and Victor was still alive made me a little disgruntled, and Joker's insistence on fucking in the same room within the presence of them both had me all testy.

"Trust me, Doll Face," Joker uttered darkly, "As much as I like 'em submissive and a bit lanky, women aren't so resilient when they're dead." He shuddered with what I was surprised to see was actual disgust, as he added, "I know I'm insane, but necrophilia is just _weird_."

And suddenly, I was feeling a little better about having a psychopath for a possessive, egotistical, hypocritical body guard. As we quickly left Victor to recuperate his thoughts, I had wished I'd killed him—then the events that followed wouldn't have happened, and I'd probably be less immoral.

But I had felt leaving Victor alive would maintain my righteous feeling, that my subconscious would thank me for it the end. I should have reminded myself that I'd been wrong before.


	31. My Anger Will Be The Death Of Me

**I've Been Wrong Before**

/

_Chapter Thirty-One: My Anger Will Be The Death Of Me_

_**/**_

It crossed my mind that I was after more than just the footage of Lyle Bolton abusing his power as Head of Security. If anything more, I was also searching for Carter's missing picture—the one that had been drawn by his four-year-old daughter—and it was for this reason that made me wonder where Carter was at all. If I found the damn drawing, where could I find Carter? Or, more importantly, would any of my favorite patients (I felt bad for even having 'favorite' _criminals_) be alive? I didn't know Carter's current health status but I did make a promise.

And I wasn't going back on that promise, especially to a man so desperate for comfort as Kart Carter...or rather, _Carver_, but so far, I'd not followed the procedure for calling patients by their favored villainous aliases...except for Joker, who had no other name to my current knowledge.

That particular note crossed my mind but I didn't dare ask Joker his true name, if he remembered it at all. I stopped walking in mid-step so Joker collided into my back and I glowered at him, feeling he did it intentionally rather than on accident. He grinned sheepishly, confirming my suspicion; despite that, I looked at the door, reading "Lyle Bolton", which only substituted the necessary title: "Camera Room".

I reached inside my pant pocket, pulled out a set of keys and automatically identifying the one that would let me in, I slipped it into the notch, turned the knob, and then pushed the door open. I was half-surprised to see no one in the room, having expected Lyle to be admiring his safety measures going according to plan. I doubted he was behind the sudden lapse in his security system, but I often times wondered if he'd implement this break-out just to see how things would work out.

It just occurred to me how greatly I mistrusted humanity.

"Where's the cabinet?" Joker asked, pulling me back to my goal at hand.

I glanced quickly at the cued cameras—I frowned when I saw a lot of dead bodies on those screens, which shown halls of all hospital corridors. Some men and women were gathered on the ground floor, some fleeing to the open doors; others were being beaten down by madmen and mad women, and I pitied one of the women who cried helplessly as she was being brutally raped. I began to get out of that room, to make a run to save her life but Joker caught my wrist, and pulled me back.

"Let me go."

"You can't save all of them," Joker scolded.

The truth sank in too quickly, and I wanted to cry for them and myself...but instead, I pulled out of my self-pity. My chest rose and fell as the familiar ugly sensation arose, and my sadness was replaced by anger. I roared, yanking my arm from Joker, who smiled as my temper had returned.

"You don't know that!" I snapped.

"Don't I?" Joker returned rhetorically, raising an eyebrow at me when I didn't say anything in return. He sat on the edge of Lyle's desk, and gestured an open hand to the television screens provided, allowing me to see the full picture—not just one or two screens, but all of them. I frowned deeply, and my heart wept for several unnamed doctors, nurses, and orderlies who were scrambling and screaming down hallways, and inside their offices. Some attempted to call 911, but their phones were wrenched from their hands as they were suddenly assaulted, raped, stabbed, beaten, and then they were quick to embrace death happily.

I heard footsteps approaching quickly down the hall outside of the office; when I heard screaming, I began to step out and assist a frightened young female orderly, but the moment I had shown my usual trait that came with being an officer, Joker slid past me just in time to shut the door, and lock it behind him. I attempted to get past him, to open the door but Joker refused to budge.

"Get out of my way, I—"

"You _what_," Joker returned callously. "Think you're gonna save her?"

"Get the hell out of my way, or I will fucking kill you, I swear." I challenged furiously.

He passively stepped aside and I wrenched open the door only to see that I was too late. The woman had been beaten, yes, but I silently thanked the gods above that it had been the only thing to happen to her before her untimely demise. Still, I could have prevented it. I turned slowly around to look at Joker, the rage boiling like a strange poison in my veins.

"_You __**bastard**_!" I screeched.

I lunged towards him in a meek attempt to exact my feelings of fury and self-loathing, but Joker was quick to step aside, laughing when he saw my inner demon, which was slowly but surely peeking out from its hiding place. For the longest time, it slumbered, but now—with the events happening as they were—I could feel that I was a few steps from snapping. I wanted to hurt something, to just brutally hurt anything or anyone for what happened to Scott, and Cullson. God...

_Keep it together, Kate! Keep it together! _

That thought didn't register in time for me to take another swipe at Joker.

"She could have been saved, you son-of-a-bitch! She could have!" I screamed, pointing at him as if I could zap lightning from my fingertips and he'd electrocute on cue. "You knew that but you let it happen! You _let it happen_!"

"I didn't let anything happen," Joker said, gesticulating to himself as if he was innocent in all of this. He held his hands out to me, instead, returning, "_You_ let it happen."

"You wouldn't get out of the way!" I snapped.

"You didn't try hard enough," Joker mused, smirking. "Now you're feeling some odd sense of self-loathing because you failed to act—of course, I can't hold you completely responsible..."

"I'm _not_ responsible!" I snarled. "You are!"

Joker shrugged: "Maybe you're right."

"I _am_ right." I hissed, "And you're fucking crazy."

Joker smiled but none too kindly, "Watch your tone, Kate."

"No," I protested snidely. "You watch _your_ tone. You let an innocent woman die..."

"Because that's so _unlike_ me," Joker returned sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He exhaled an amused scoff, adding, "And you're looking to blame someone for your imagined slights—that's not what your anger management classes have taught you, Pet. You should know better than that."

"Fuck you." I growled.

Joker frowned—and I began to regret my retort.

"All cooped up in an office with a criminal," Joker drawled with an eerie calm. "I don't think you should be using that kind of tone, Katelynn."

I shivered when he used my full name—I never once heard him do that. Nor did I wish to hear it again.

"Who knows," Joker uttered, shrugging his shoulders mockingly, "it might make me a little...frisky."

"Do you always think about sex?" I questioned ironically—despite my terror of the whole situation.

Joker scoffed saying, "No man thinks of anything else when he's locked in an office with a pretty cop...speaking of which," He stepped towards me, "Now that we have some alone time..."

"No, no, no..." I muttered. I attempted to flee, to get the hell out of here, but Joker did a quick reach around and my lower back hit the edge of Lyle's desk with a profound and sharp thud. I felt the corner dig into my waist, wincing when the pain was sharp but quickly fading. I looked at Joker worriedly.

How many times was he gonna do this before I actually accomplished my goal and—

"You know," Joker stated in a matter-of-fact tone, "The only thing I really don't like about you, Kate, is that you think everything you do has to be completely moral. Not all good things are frosted with good ethics and societal appeal."

As he said this, he stood between my legs and placed his hands on the desk to either side of my thighs. The returning sexual frustration that conflicted with my good-girl subconscious was showing its ugly head with an accompanied scenario of being fucked by the Joker on my uptight boss' desk. I gave the simulation a pleasant thought before reminding myself the reason for why I was here at all. I began to get off the desk, and Joker watched me with a pleasant smile.

"Still playing hard-to-get?" Joker asked, more as an estimated statement than an actual inquiry.

When I placed my hands against his chest to move him aside, he folded his hands over the back of my own, trapping them on his uniform. I glowered at his persistence, but he smiled at mine.

"You're not being yourself," Joker declared.

The confidence and factual tone of his claim disarmed me, making me stare at him rather than fight. He smiled at my reaction.

"How do you know the real me?" I questioned. "You hardly know anything about me."

"Oh, you're wrong," Joker chuckled, "_So_ wrong."

"Fuck you."

"Careful, Kate," He warned dangerously.

I bit my lip—I liked his stern tone, but I was equally startled by how quickly he could be pleased by my actions and then equally offended. Or...maybe I had an inner kink that wanted me to call him 'Daddy' and I was his good little girl...

_KATE, STOP!_

"You're married to a stiff lawyer who has a problematic obsession to keep everything nice and tidy, and apparently is a little _too _punctual," Joker drawled. "You don't talk about any kids, so I can only assume you have none—most mothers prattle on about the safety of their own blood; you haven't."

I stared at him—quite the detective, wasn't he?

"No pets of any kind," Joker said, smiling. "Husband won't allow you to have any, will he?"

"_Allow_?" I repeated, clearly offended...and I was.

"Mhmm," Joker returned, standing by his claim. "You're being controlled by a stiff, Kate. No flame wants to be smothered; in doing so, they only die out."

"I'm not dead."

"Not yet," Joker uttered immediately.

I winced.

Joker chuckled, "You're not dead physically—if you were, we'd have to discuss how this is remotely possible and I'd have to do a bit of research of physical manifestation of paranormal phenomena."

I giggled weakly at his joke.

"There it is," Joker sighed pleasantly, catching my brief smile. "That's the real Kate."

"You don't know me," I returned—back to frowning.

"I know you more than anyone," Joker returned.

"That's impossible."

"It is?" Joker remarked mockingly. "You're more of an open book than you realize, Pigeon...I know more about you than your husband does, and that's not my opinion; it's a fac**t**, and you can't stand that."

"I can't stand _you_." I retorted coldly. "And leave my husband out of it."

"Of course, I will. Why break tradition?" Joker drawled. He smirked: "What would he say, Kate, if he knew about _us_."

With his hands still tightly holding mine, he gestured them between us and I shook my head in denial of it all.

"Bet you had a strict parentage, didn't you?" Joker guessed.

When I glared at him, it only confirmed that he was right.

"Controlling parents, controlling husband—strict..._your_ flame has been smothered a lot, Kate, hasn't it?" Joker questioned. "You need a break from your pathetic reality, and so far, I'm the only option you have—excitement, immorality, and fun all packed into one happy guy." He grinned at me, saying, "Now what sane woman would refuse that?"

"I'm not pathetic." I grumbled.

"No. I said your _life_ is pathetic. You..." Joker mused, "are a prisoner in your own world."

He glanced at my wrists pointedly, "But yet, I don't see the shackles. I wonder why that is."

"Stop trying to manipulate me. It won't work," I ordered coldly. "How dare you twist my life..."

"I didn't twist your arm when you chose to come into my cell that night," Joker reminded calmly.

"Yeah but..."

"I didn't trick you into taking off your clothes."

"Yeah but..."

"I certainly didn't manipulate any circumstances when you decided that _you_ were going to be on top," Joker recalled, smirking at me. "By the way, does Gary know how controlling _you_ can be when you're angry? Your jaw gets a little tight when you get mad."

He chuckled, "Kinda like the way it is right now."

"Because you're pissing me off!" I snapped.

"And I love it," Joker returned.

"Get the hell away from me."

"Anger is your weakness, Kate," Joker claimed pointedly. "It's gonna be the death of you—so foolish, so stupid...so _passionate_."

I shoved him away from me and in my anger, I found strength like I never knew I had. I grabbed his shoulders and threw him over the desk; he giggled after he grunted with the impact of his back being pressed roughly onto the wooden surface. In order to 'get away' from me, he scooted clear in the center of the desk, but I took that lovely opportunity to hop on it, straddling his waist and nailing his wrists above his head with my fingers, glaring at him.

"There's that rage," Joker pointed out lazily, "So _aggressive_."

"SHUT UP!" I shouted. "Will you just stop _talking_!"

"You know I won't do it willingly," Joker reminded.

"Shut up anyway."

"You can't have your way all the time," Joker stated lightly.

"I know that," I spat. "People like you seem to make sure of that."

"You can always talk me down," Joker suggested.

"You're not stupid to fall for that." I replied coldly. "And I'm not stupid enough to think you will."

Joker chuckled, saying sarcastically, "Do it the Lyle Bolton way. Hit me—You wanna do it, I know you do."

I stared at him, surprised more than anything. I was more surprised at myself. I was on the desk, straddling the Joker with his wrists pinned above his head while I did the pinning. I wanted to hit the guy, I really did, but I was battling internally—stay righteous, be good, Kate, be good.

_Don't give into him—you know he's..._

_ I know he is._

I frowned at Joker.

I figured out that he was actually attempting to turn me. Maybe even recruit me.

In spite of it, I wanted him to feel as much pain as possible. So, I grinned broadly which made Joker look at me with the slightest hesitated turn of curiosity. I thought maybe if I didn't go with his little game that he'd get angry, and this would end. I couldn't have been more stupid.

Joker sat up, smirking at me when I simply looked at him.

"You know what's so funny about all of this?"

"I can't imagine what _isn't_ funny to you," I replied seriously.

He hopped off the desk, and strolled towards me. I couldn't react quickly enough when he grabbed me by the shoulders, and turned me around so my back was to him. Just as quick as he'd done this, I also grunted when he bent me over the desk; I held the edges of the surface in a feeble attempt to escape this creepy position, but Joker was stronger than me, no doubt.

I whimpered as I felt my pants being pulled down my legs, dropping at my ankles, along with my underwear. Joker placed a foot between mine so when he moved it, my legs spread and I was in a position that only meant one thing.

"Sometimes, you just simply humor me, Kate," Joker uttered in a clearly entertained voice.

I barely made a sound when he pulled my shirt over my head, throwing it somewhere out of my sights and I winced at the chill of his hand that undid the clasp of my bra, which was tossed over to join my shirt.

He took a handful of my hair and pulled it back and I cringed at the pain—but also because I was starting to feel aroused by the cool air that nipped at my warm skin, and the fact that I was completely nude in my boss' office with one of the criminals that Lyle just absolutely despised.

A small get-back-at-the-Man kink, I suppose.

"Why do you even mess with me," I muttered uncertainly.

My body was erect with his, but the desk corner's hard texture that was pushed against my naked sex was making my inhibitions lower a little more. That, and Joker's hand in my hair tightened which made my roots scream in protest, but I couldn't help but thank him for a little pain.

"In spite of all the chances I've given you and all the offers, you've denied your freedom."

"You won't let me go," I protested; I inhaled sharply when he yanked on my roots hard.

"No, no, no. I'm not the one holding you back," Joker said quietly. "You're refusing to let yourself be what you've always been.."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough."

"Not enough."

Joker let go of my hands and I was free to run from him. I was free to leave this situation, and escape with my life. But I didn't. Something held me in this position, something beckoned to keep me there. Something...

"Society tells you to be calm—when, face it Kate, you're not a calm person. In fact, you're very angry, very..._excitable_." Joker smirked at the last, and I eyed him coldly.

"I'm not..."

"You want to believe that," Joker replied.

"I do want—I _do_ believe it. It is me."

"That's not you." Joker returned automatically. "No, the _real_ Kate is angry. And you're trying to control her. And..." He sighed, "You lack restraint."

"Clearly, I don't."

"Then why haven't you run?" asked Joker.

I stared at him.

"See?" Joker offered.

He placed his hands over my chest, touching my breasts, but not groping or anything. He was teasing, and boy, was it working. I was stiff with tension, uncertainty, guilt, and above all, sexual frustration. He caused all of these at the same time, and I damned him for it.

"Gary wants you obedient and calm. Me? I like you _just_ the way you are." Joker's voice vibrated in my chest as he uttered these facts in my ear, and I was lost to the deep timbres. "I like your rage..." He touched his mouth to my neck and I felt his tongue lick my nape and just behind my ear.

"Stop..." I mumbled.

"Despite what your mind is ordering you to do," Joker purred, "You want the exact opposite."

His fingers spread over my breasts, squeezing lightly, just barely a tickle from what I wanted him to do. They slowly moved down my rib cage, his thumbs dancing over my stomach. I shivered under the touch, wanting heavier petting, but Joker was a cruel man.

"_They_ see unhealthy rage; they think you're out of control. I don't think that..." Joker placed his hands on my hips; his cheek rubbed against mine and I felt his rough scars on my soft skin but that didn't deter me the slightest; if anything, it reminded me just how illegal this felt...and how naughty.

"Raw hunger is hard to come by," Joker muttered, his mouth just millimeters from the corner of my own, "And yours is almost insatiable."

I realized my eyes were closed and my lips were parted when he rubbed my inner thighs. I emitted a moan from my opened mouth. I knew I was falling for whatever Joker had been planning. I knew it, and yet, I was still being taken in by this illusion.

It's not so much that I _knew _I was being seduced by this hardened criminal.

I knew I _wanted_ to be, and that, my friend, was what made is so _wrong_.

"You're pretending to be something you're not, Kate," he purred. "What you want is to be one of them. And you can't be."

One of his hands left my lower disposition to act as a placement on my neck so my mouth met his, but we didn't kiss. Our lips touched, but it was a tease that only made me want to lock mine against his, to taste him. Every part of me wanted him—in any way possible.

"You want to be free, Kate. Don't you?"

I was failing miserably at keeping in with my morality. I was starting to lose what little strength I had against his influence. What with Cullson gone, Scott lying dead in a locker room, and possibly all my friends dead, I only had Gary...and although I should have been grateful for having my husband, I felt more depressed at the idea of going back to that control freak than anything. The idea of being with Joker—forget the underlying tones of subliminal feelings, however remote—was almost worth saying...

"Yes..." I mumbled.

Joker smiled at my answer, saying, "The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules, Kate."

"But..." I began a protest, thinking that there were still boundaries that must not be passed.

"You could learn that in time," Joker offered. "This world is a joke, and you're its punchline."

I can't say that I didn't get offended by this, because I most certainly did. I didn't like being any punchline at any joke and this was a universal pun!

"_I'm not a—," _I started furiously, but then I was interrupted.

Joker caught my retort with a final joining of our lips and the kiss deepened when I was shocked, not having the time to protest in any shape or form. When I halfway found my wits, I was attempting to hold onto whatever was keeping me officially sane, even though I wanted to simply fall into whatever madness he was currently happily living. I just couldn't allow myself to do it—not with the whole prison..._hospital_...on lockdown, and Gary at home, and Carter...I mean, I still needed to get his drawing, and Lyle's video tapes. I couldn't let myself fall into this pit and then...

"You're still fighting, Pigeon," Joker pointed out.

I opened my eyes, seeing that he was actually exasperated than amused now.

"I can't help it." I mumbled.

"You can. You just _won't_."

"I can't..." I uttered again. This time, I was surprised to hear my voice sounding so desperate. As if my ambition in life was actually _keeping_ me from what I wanted, rather than normally allowing me to go places that I wanted to go. Instead, it was preventing me from doing something my heart truly demanded but my mind was forbidding.

_**What kind of hell was this! **_

__"Let go, Kate." Joker told me.

"I can't!" I snapped.

Frustrated by my subconscious, irritated by the fact that my morality simply wouldn't let me fall into a madness I so desperately craved, so desperately wanted and needed, I pushed Joker from me and began pulling up my underwear and pants.

Joker was either impressed by my slighted passions or by the fact that I was actually denying having sex on my boss' desk. I passed him angrily, snapping on my bra and shirt so I could retrieve the video feed that convicted Lyle Bolton of his power abuse. When I glanced at Joker, I saw him staring at me with some expression that I could only describe as a frighteningly dangerous epiphany...or maybe just creepy delight.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" I asked quietly.

Joker smiled at me, saying, "You know...there's only one other person I know that has your mistaken sense of self-righteousness."

I rolled my eyes saying, "I'm sure there are other people like me."

"Oh, there are." Joker mused, smiling widely. "But I've known Batman to be the only other type of person that just _refuses _to let go."

I looked at Joker for a second, confused by the statement.

"What, you think I'm Batman?" I asked.

"Hardly," scoffed Joker. "Aside from the fact you don't have the correct appendages, your voice gets awfully shrill when you're angry. Batman is more of a guttural growl." He smiled as if he was reminiscing.

I watched him, a bit intrigued by his fascination for Batman. Sure, a lot of people liked the masked vigilante but Joker seemed more or less obsessed with him. Then, he quickly looked at me as if realizing I was here the entire time.

"You do remind me of him though," Joker said as he watched me kneel at the cabinet I'd been waiting to open.

"Great," I returned distractedly. I attempted to jiggle the handle but it wouldn't budge; recklessly, I searched the office for a key, but finding none, I growled angrily.

Joker chuckled, "Actually, you remind me of him _a lot_."

I stared at him saying, "Will you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Talking."

Joker chuckled, "You must be zip-lining from building to building with him when you're not with me." He smirked, "Tell me, Kate—do you think what Batman does is 'right'?"

"I think it's illegal," I replied honestly.

Joker quirked an eyebrow for two reasons: my answer, and I also was attempting to open the lock with a pen. He rolled his eyes, waving my hands away from the lock as he bent on knee beside me.

"Give me something sharp," Joker said.

"Example?"

"Knife, letter opener, doesn't matter."

I looked around in a drawer and handed him a letter opener which he immediately broke in half so the sharpest end was mighty prickly.

"If you think what Batman's doing is wrong," Joker continued conversationally, as his attention was mostly directed at the lock, "Then how come you're not after him like all the other authorities?"

"I said what he's doing is illegal" I stated. "I didn't say that it was wrong. If anything, I'm more than happy to let him beat criminals to a pulp with his fists."

Joker smirked at me, stopping with the lockpicking, as he said, "Even criminals like me?"

I smiled in spite of myself, saying, "There _are_ no criminals like you."

Joker chuckled, rolling his eyes knowingly as he said, "You're a charmer, Kate. I'll give you that."

I watched him jiggle the sharp end once more into the lock and then with a might I was a bit impressed to see, Joker put all kinds of strength into slamming his hand on the handle so that the sound of a lock being jammed and sprung was sounded with two audible clicks and a crack.

"Did you get it?" I asked.

"For the most part."

"What does that mean?"

Joker looked up at me from the floor, saying, "Expecting me to do all the dirty work, huh? Don't be fooled." He made a soft grunt as he got to his feet, gesturing to the drawer, saying, "You get to open it; I'm not doing all of it for you."

I knelt on my knees and opened the drawer. From behind, I could feel Joker's hands tangling in my hair. I glanced up briefly to see that he was distracted again, admiring the red of my locks before I shook my head briefly, only to look down in the drawer to feel very, very disappointed. Apparently, Lyle had predicted my move...

The tapes, and Carter's picture, were gone.

"Fuck me." I cursed.

Joker chuckled, saying, "I already tried once; you politely declined."

I looked up at him and Joker glanced over my shoulder and smiled in spite of the situation saying, "Ooh, and the plot thickens."

I stood to my feet.

"Come on." I mumbled.

"Come where?" Joker inquired.

"Out."

Joker stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. I looked at him pointedly, saying, "You kept your end of the bargain; you opened the lock for me. Now I'm keeping my end."

Joker chuckled, "You plan on walking out of here alive?"

I smiled, saying, "I'm way past that."

"Ooh, what exactly do you mean by _that_."

I frowned a little but when I had stepped as close to Joker as possible without any of me touching him, I muttered, "I'm _deeply_ disappointed. At this point, I've wasted valuable time in finding a drawer with nothing in it, when I could have been saving lives. I've lost two of my close friends, possibly to the same fucking person. And my boss is a complete asshole."

"And you're wanting to bring the people responsible to 'justice'?" Joker returned sarcastically.

I scoffed, "And then pretend that I actually give a damn?"

Joker quirked an eyebrow at my bold tone.

"I'm not out just for revenge," I uttered, staring at the cameras now.

"Then _what_ are you out for?" Joker questioned, pleased by sudden change of heart.

Thanks to my last glance of the cameras, I was heading to Level 2 where I knew Victor was.

"Blood," I answered.

Joker wrapped his arm around my shoulders and uttered, "Atta girl."

I walked out of the door and Joker eagerly followed me as we walked side by side down the hall. I no longer took caution—I was infuriated. My anger was my strength. My anger was me. And right now, I wanted it to do what I truly desired, even if I'd pay for it in years of guilt yet to come. I'd have summon all my inner demons to do it, and I hoped silently that with Joker's influence, I might be able to do it.

And what I desired most was to kill Victor Zsass.


	32. Fly Fly Fly

**I'd Been Wrong Before**

**Chapter Thirty-Two**: Fly, Fly, Fly

The elevator was shot. Thanks to being on the elevator during the time when the voltage died and the breaker blew, Joker and I knew not to waste our time trying to get into that steel broken box. After spending over an hour just biding time in a metal cage, I wasn't about to even try a different elevator; instead, I climbed up the stairs briskly. The look in my eyes was surely murder.

I wanted the videos that proved my suspicions of Lyle's abusive 'security measures'.

But Lyle had them somewhere else...or maybe he'd just been teasing me with the mysteriously locked cabinet just to get my goat. I'd be even more infuriated with myself if that was the case. That being said, I was also unhappy that I'd yet to fetch Carter's picture and bring it to him as I'd promised...although I didn't know for sure if Carter was even alive.

Joker was walking on my side as we ascended to Level 2; opening the iron door, I found interesting facts that made me squirm unpleasantly and yet, I was comforted by the idea. Before me were Medusa, Carter, and Calypso all fighting Victor. When I mean 'fighting', I mean 'attempting to knife each other in the back'; I figured this was a fight long time coming since Calypso and Carter disagreed on numerous things and Medusa felt Victor was a pig in his own right...and Victor was just looking to add more bodies to his (as the Joker referred to it) "flesh board".

The litter of corpses that encircled the nurse's station made my heart shrivel with the thought that Lori Heart and Catherine were lying dead in their pool of blood, the both of them: halfway decapitated. I winced, seeing fear on the women's faces. I then noticed that James Kyle wasn't part of the bunch; I searched around, making sure to dodge out of sight from the many encircling criminals so as to find James. If anything, he owed Joker an apology as well.

"Looking for Kyle?"

I glanced at Joker who'd been following me, and I nodded.

"I give you two guesses," Joker stated sarcastically.

Hearing his tone, I quirked an eyebrow. Joker rolled his eyes in the direction of a janitor's broom closet which was a door down from the nurse's station. Joker smiled when I frowned as I opened the door and there was James, bawling like a baby. When James saw Joker, his eyes became wider than saucer plates; I noticed he wore blood on his scrubs...probably not his.

"Hi, Kyle." I uttered unhappily.

"K-Katelynn...w-where..." He began but when I stepped aside carelessly and smiled at Joker, who grinned back at me mischievously, suddenly Kyle was at a loss for words.

"You were in on Lyle's mistreatment." I acclaimed to Kyle, who could only gape for words.

"Kate, you're a cop!"

"I am," I admitted, knowing that for a fact. "That doesn't mean I have to save you from your Karma." I smiled cheekily then I looked at Joker pointedly. "I'm only letting you do this because I have better fish to fry. I hope you know that."

"You're after Vicky," Joker returned smoothly, "Do you really think I'd argue with _you_?"

I caught his rhetorical cynicism but I let it bounce off me. I was gonna take my anger out on Victor. Meanwhile, Kyle shivered in the closet, starring at the both of us.

"Kate...you can't..." He began.

Joker looked at him slowly, saying, "Oh, for once in your life, how 'bout having a little bit of courage? Might as well go out with a bang, right? Speaking of which..." Joker looked at me curiously, "Do you mind?"

I shrugged, handing him my gun. Joker looked at the hand that offered the weapon freely with mild surprise. Kyle looked offended at my sudden will to hand over my weapon, but Joker looked immensely pleased, which I guessed was really a bad thing than a good thing. However, I smiled in return and Joker chuckled.

"I'm rubbing off on you, Pigeon." Joker mused.

"May be." I admitted, silently disgusted with my steady descent in fulfilling my raging demons. "But at this point..." I tossed my badge on the ground, "I'm no longer an officer anyway."

I smirked at Kyle: "Have fun, James."

I walked away from the situation even when I heard a shot fire and that was Kyle being shot in the knee. His screams were filtered by the sounds of screams and shrieks behind me; I turned and saw that Victor had taken down both Medusa and Calypso; the two women laid on the ground in their blood, some spewing from the mouths and I winced at the picture. The two women laid beside each other, holding each other's hands with as much strength as possible, neither of them would die alone.

I glanced to the side, seeing Carter, who was cradling a knife woundon his thigh, which was profusely bleeding. And then, I looked up to see that it was only Victor and myself. Victor twirled a knife in his hand; both weapons were covered in blood obtained from countless bodies, and I knew it was only a matter of time before Carter joined that fatality count.

"Well, well, well..." began Victor.

"Stop talking. I've had enough talk."

"No talking? But you love to talk."

I glared at Victor, saying nothing in return. Standing before Calypso's body, I slowly knelt by her side and withdrew a dagger she'd obtained only god knows where; probably, it had been hidden under her mattress the entire time and I'd just never looked that far. When I smelled the copper, it engulfed my senses, making me dizzy, and sick. As I gained my disposition, and looked at Victor, I could see that he was starting to doubt my veracity.

Did he still doubt my will to kill him?

I just let Joker kill Kyle. I just watched all my friends be brutally slaughtered. Was I with it anymore?

Even I knew I wasn't.

So Victor watched me carefully as I stepped towards him with my dagger.

"Tell me, Kate..." Victor drawled, "How does it feel to be the last one standing? The last one of your people to come out victorious? Does it make you feel alive?"

I frowned at him, saying, "No. No, it doesn't make me feel alive."

"Then you're angry at me for what I've done to you?"

"You've done nothing to me," I muttered.

"I've killed your friends."

"That happened to my friends," I returned, surprised by my own apathy.

Victor stared at me uncertainly. The expression satisfied me greatly.

"Do you think you'll make it out this time, Kate?" Victor chuckled. "I won't stop this time. No matter how you beg and plead—and you have no more people to protect. So now it's just you and me."

"And him," I added, gesturing the knife to Joker who was joining at the sidelines.

Victor glanced between him and me, then smiled.

"You're gonna get help from a criminal?"

Joker excused himself, saying, "Actually, I'm just here to watch. I wanna see what happens."

I thought I had the will to kill Victor. I thought I had the urge to slaughter him as he'd slaughtered all my friends, the people I'd come to love and cherish, and while I hated some of them, I never had wanted them dead...except for Kyle, but his mere existence bothered me.

I thought I had the guts to do what I must but when Victor stepped towards me, I found that I didn't want to kill him. I'd only be sinking as low as the rest of them. I raised my knife anyway, waiting for something to happen but apparently, someone else saw fit to finish the deed for me, else I'd be dead at his feet.

There was the loud bang of a pistol, and then Victor fell dead. I slowly looked up from the man to Joker, who held the gun, and lowered it to his side. I stared at him incredulously, surprised that he'd saved my life twice, from the save person. When Joker approached me, he made a gesture for me to hold out my hand and doing so, I held it out, palm up. When he placed my gun in my hand, I looked at him confusedly. Why did he save me? What was his reason behind all of it?

"You are truly incorruptible," Joker mused, smirking at me. "Aren't you, Kate? Someone holds a knife out to you, and you barely raise your own."

I smiled shortly, but I could say nothing for a retort. When he shrugged, as if this was a game he could either take or leave, I was curious so I stepped towards him. He heard the tap of my shoe so he turned around, looking at me pointedly.

"You know," Joker offered, "Now that I'm getting out of this place, I _will_ have all the time in the world to do as I please."

I asked uncertainly, "Are you going to stalk me now that you're free?"

"Stalk you?" Joker repeated skeptically. "Kate, you'll never know what I might do. But you can always count on the fact that when I do something I want you to see, you will definitely see it. Otherwise, it's not worth doing."

I flinched a little when he came towards me, placing his hand on my jaw then lined his thumb under my chin.

"I'll see you around, Pigeon." Joker uttered lightly. He turned to leave, then said, "Unless..."

He turned to look at me.

"Unless?" I asked curiously.

"You want to come along," Joker offered. "I'm always lacking in lackeys; they're oddly dependable but simultaneously expendable. It's like a buy one, get one free sale at a clearance sale—doesn't ever get old, and it's cheap."

I bit my lip. How I wanted to leave this world behind. How did I want to leave this reality and lead a life that constantly filled with excitement and mayhem. But this was enough for me; I'd seen enough blood. I hadn't realized how ungrateful I was for just having a dull marriage and an odd job until I had become mixed in this weird relationship I had with one of the craziest people in Gotham.

No...not crazy.

Just different.

Very different.

I looked at Joker, smiling bitterly: "I can't leave."

"Why?" Joker questioned—he took no offense to it, it was curiosity at its best.

With some resignation, I held up my hands and said, with a tone I felt most expressed my true realization of the love I had for my time-obsessed companion: "I have a husband."

Joker rolled his eyes, saying, "Oh if I had a nickel for every time I heard that."

He threw up his hands as if he couldn't give a damn then I watched him leave the floor, and possibly the building for I never saw him again.

I was shocked that I'd done nothing to prevent any of this. On top of it all, I didn't even have my video tapes, or get the chance to give Carter back his picture. As I observed the deadly acts of crime and blood splatter on the walls, floors and inside rooms of unlucky sleeping patients that were now dead or dying, I stopped at the nurse's station, and began to call 9-1-1. Under the desk, I heard a frightened sound, so I glanced underneath, curious to the whimper.

And there was Liam Prathart.

What the fuck?

"Prathart?" I asked curiously, seeing the officer who'd not only been fired but was the last person I expected to see in the hospital, especially under a nurse's desk. He was a skinny man, balding, blue eyes, and I'd not see him in forever. When Prathart looked up at me, he asked quietly if the horrors had stopped. When I nodded in return, he clumsily climbed out from the nurse's station.

"Why the hell are you under a desk?" I asked. "More importantly" (I took the phone from the Nurse desk and dialed the number) "why are you even in this place?"

"I felt guilty..." Prathart began.

"Guilty?" I asked.

"Yes." Prathart returned.

I hung up the phone on the emergency number, sitting on the desk to look at Prathart incredulously.

"About what?"

"About all of this," Prathart uttered nervously. Evidently, he was still shaken by the scenes that had just happened. I couldn't blame him.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Prathart was shaking, and I knew he was frightened. He sighed unhappily then made a sign for me to follow him, which I did, all the way to Level 1 and to the Camera Room. Prathart then began to explain that he was in on Lyle's mistreatment of the patients on both levels, including those torture acts administered on Calypso, Carter, Medusa, Joker, and Victor Zsass. Upon being fired, Prathart had wittingly taken the video tapes to protect himself and his colleagues—odds are, Lyle didn't even know they were gone.

I stared at Prathart when he finished. He held his cheek suddenly when I slapped him across the face.

"Ow—god, Richardson, what was that for!" Prathart snapped.

"For putting me through hell!" I retorted.

"But..."

"No excuses, not now." I returned coldly. I shook my head: "I'm going to call 911, get the police down here, and when this is all taken care of—yes, including sacking Lyle—I'm resigning." I held up my hands, shaking my head: "This whole experience is enough for me to realize that working in a hospital full of crazy people is just not for me."

"And," I continued "If you had the tapes, what happened to Carter's picture?"

"Picture?" repeated Prathart, clueless.

"The one his daughter made for him—Lyle took it from him."

Prathart shrugged: "I'm not sure what you're talking about—there wasn't any picture with the video tapes I'd taken. I say it's probably stuck behind a dresser in Carter's room; you know how cramped his room can be."

I mentally slapped myself, thinking for sure that's where it would be. No matter now—Carter was passed out from shock, and probably dead now in the hallway from hemorrhaging blood.

Prathart stared at me.

"I'm going to do what my husband wanted me to do," I stated after I called 911.

"Which is?" Prathart asked.

We both carried a cup of coffee as the SWAT team began invading the hospital for survivors and hostile take overs. We were escorted to the ambulance to be fixed up and briefed, giving our statements to the police and ambulance alike. When we'd been left alone, I looked at Prathart.

"I'm going to become a housewife, and I'm going to be grateful that my life is not as tedious as the other people's lives are in Gotham." I smiled at Prathart, saying, "The grass isn't greener on the other side. It's a little _too_ green, if you ask me."

"What do you mean, 'too' green?" asked Prathart, shaking his head with confusion.

I shrugged: "It's a technical term, you wouldn't understand."

Prathart stared at me then shook his head again, not caring whether or not he understood my little pun.

(())

Since then, a year had passed.

I did what I told Prathart I was going to do. I quit my job after all the mess was cleaned up and when the Arkham Asylum was remodeled and rejuvenated with more cops, more patients, and less morale, Prathart had done for me my favor and given all these video tapes I'd searched for to the police. In seeing the videos, Lyle Bolton was sacked, Dr. Arkham was indicted (for the allowing of these treatment on patients), and I was offered a job as Head of Security. Owing to the fact that I told myself I'd never go back to the hospital, I politely declined.

On my anniversary, I was surprised that Gary hadn't called me when I was out shopping. I thought he might have called right on the spot—2:00 sharp, to say 'Happy Anniversary'...not only for our sixth year of marriage, but it was also a year since I'd quit my job, which had been on my anniversary.

Hearing his voicemail for the third time, I was a bit surprised. This was so uncommon since Gary was predictable as clockwork.

I arrived home, seeing his car. So I took caution in walking into the house. I held three bags in one hand, three bags in the other, full of lingerie, sweet clothes, and a few interesting artifacts that might help Gary and me get a little more love in the love nest. I'd offered a few of my ideas, describing (in regrettable detail what exactly I wanted during sex), and Gary had surprisingly agreed to putting forth the effort in making things better for me.

When I placed my bags in the living room, I found that it was unusually dark. I stared through the darkness, attempting to become accustomed to the abnormal dim shadow, but to no avail. I stayed absolutely still as I flicked on the light switch, and was greatly disturbed by what I saw.

Gary was naked, and spread eagled on the floor. He lain in a red blood-drawn circle with numbers starting at 1 to 12, and his hands were placed on the twelve and two while his legs remained in one direction at the 6...he was a disturbing replica of a clock.

His neck was slashed with a sharp tool, and his eyes were wide with fear. I stepped forward, but then I realized that there was someone in the kitchen. I heard them before I saw them. The sound of an apple being bitten into or sliced by a knife made my skin crawl as I walked steadily in that direction. When I entered the tiled floor, I was shocked to see the Joker, standing there with the familiar custom made suit I'd seen him wear two years ago on television.

He smiled at me pointedly.

"What are you doing here?" I asked quietly.

Joker tossed the apple core into the trash can, chewing on the last bite as he stepped towards me, the knife in his hand. I frowned when he cornered my back against the counter but I wasn't afraid...in fact, I was startled to see Gary dead, but even more startled to feel nothing towards that kind of macabre.

Joker remained quiet as he placed the blade along my neck, and I recognized that deep, intense gaze of his. It had been a year since I had spoken or even met this guy, and yet, all the unforgivable feelings my body felt for him betrayed me just the same. I was aroused by this nature.

"It's not every day I get to meet a woman as charming as you, Kate," Joker said lightly. "Trust me, I've looked." He sounded as if he hadn't, and was just proving a point. "Quite frankly, I've yet to find anyone more amusing than you with your morale issues conflicting with whatever kinky thoughts you have of me."

I continued to glare at him.

Joker smirked, saying, "So you _have_ thought of me."

I bit my lip.

"Aw, no harm in that," Joker returned, patting my cheek with the flat side of the blade. "If it's any consolation, Gary didn't suffer too badly. I think he's just as amusing as you. You know why?"

"No." I returned quietly.

Joker chuckled as if reliving a funny memory, saying, "The only thing he begged of me before I slit his throat was that I follow all the way through, and not leave it half finished. He's a funny guy, Kate, really funny."

My eyes narrowed at his dark humor.

He realized I didn't find it funny but the seriousness returned just the same. He touched my neck with his hand, his lips just barely touching mine. I wanted him to kiss me, I really did...despite the fact that he killed what was the last of my family.

"You have no one left, Pigeon," Joker purred quietly. "No friends—they all died in the hospital. No family—their time was up."

I caught the dark joke about time...considering my husband was placed in a figment of a clock anyway. When Joker saw me smile just a little bit (I had to appreciate the humor), Joker smirked at me instead of staring at me with the seriousness of a growling tiger.

There was only silence when Joker leaned forward and kissed my upper lip. It was teasing. He waited for me to kiss him back. I hesitated briefly before my body remembered the exploitation between it and the Joker, then I was thrown into an overwhelming sense of lust and hunger. I met Joker halfway, kissing him back.

Then, at that moment, I threw caution to the wind.

It was easier to fly when no one was tying you to the ground. When he pushed all and everything off the counter, lying my back onto the cold surface as he pulled off my pants and underwear, I had no equivocations of what was soon to come. I knew I was free—despite my morale screaming at me, I couldn't hear their words. None to scold me, none to hold me back.

And I felt free.

So free...

Like a dove...

Or a pigeon.

Despite my current feeling, I felt it would get worse. I felt it would take a turn for the bad and I would be back where I started in a grueling world of morbidity, chaos, and Gotham's Rule. Then again...

I've been right before.

/

_Author's Note: Sadly, this is the last chapter of this story, and the end. I am currently making a new story between Joker/OC. :D It will be arriving shortly. _


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